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                                      1900
                                 SISTER CARRIE
                              by Theodore Dreiser
                        Chapter I.
         THE MAGNET ATTRACTING: A WAIF AMID FORCES

  When Caroline Meeber boarded the afternoon train for Chicago, her
total outfit consisted of a small trunk, a cheap imitation
alligator-skin satchel, a small lunch in a paper box, and a yellow
leather snap purse, containing her ticket, a scrap of paper with her
sister's address in Van Buren Street, and four dollars in money. It
was in August, 1889. She was eighteen years of age, bright, timid, and
full of the illusions of ignorance and youth. Whatever touch of regret
at parting characterised her thoughts, it was certainly not for
advantages now being given up. A gush of tears at her mother's
farewell kiss, a touch in her throat when the cars clacked by the
flour mill where her father worked by the day, a pathetic sigh as
the familiar green environs of the village passed in review, and the
threads which bound her so lightly to girlhood and home were
irretrievably broken.
  To be sure there was always the next station, where one might
descend and return. There was the great city, bound more closely by
these very trains which came up daily. Columbia City was not so very
far away, even once she was in Chicago. What, pray, is a few hours-
a few hundred miles? She looked at the little slip bearing her
sister's address and wondered. She gazed at the green landscape, now
passing in swift review, until her swifter thoughts replaced its
impression with vague conjectures of what Chicago might be.
  When a girl leaves her home at eighteen, she does one of two things.
Either she falls into saving hands and becomes better, or she
rapidly assumes the cosmopolitan standard of virtue and becomes worse.
Of an intermediate balance, under the circumstances, there is no
possibility. The city has its cunning wiles, no less than the
infinitely smaller and more human tempter. There are large forces
which allure with all the soulfulness of expression possible in the
most cultured human. The gleam of a thousand lights is often as
effective as the persuasive light in a wooing and fascinating eye.
Half the undoing of the unsophisticated and natural mind is
accomplished by forces wholly superhuman. A blare of sound, a roar
of life, a vast array of human hives, appeal to the astonished
senses in equivocal terms. Without a counsellor at hand to whisper
cautious interpretations, what falsehoods may not these things breathe
into the unguarded ear! Unrecognised for what they are, their
beauty, like music, too often relaxes, then weakens, then perverts the
simpler human perceptions.
  Caroline, or Sister Carrie, as she had been half affectionately
termed by the family, was possessed of a mind rudimentary in its power
of observation and analysis. Self-interest with her was high, but
not strong. It was, nevertheless, her guiding characteristic. Warm
with the fancies of youth, pretty with the insipid prettiness of the
formative period, possessed of a figure promising eventual shapeliness
and an eye alight with certain native intelligence, she was a fair
example of the middle American class- two generations removed from the
emigrant. Books were beyond her interest- knowledge a sealed book.
In the intuitive graces she was still crude. She could scarcely toss
her head gracefully. Her hands were almost ineffectual. The feet,
though small, were set flatly. And yet she was interested in her
charms, quick to understand the keener pleasures of life, ambitious to
gain in material things. A half-equipped little knight she was,
venturing to reconnoitre the mysterious city and dreaming wild
dreams of some vague, far-off supremacy, which should make it prey and
subject- the proper penitent, grovelling at a woman's slipper.
  "That," said a voice in her ear, "is one of the prettiest little
resorts in Wisconsin."
  "Is it?" she answered nervously.
  The train was just pulling out of Waukesha. For some time she had
been conscious of a man behind. She felt him observing her mass of
hair. He had been fidgetting, and with natural intuition she felt a
certain interest growing in that quarter. Her maidenly reserve, and
a certain sense of what was conventional under the circumstances,
called her to forestall and deny this familiarity, but the daring
and magnetism of the individual, born of past experiences and
triumphs, prevailed. She answered.
  He leaned forward to put his elbows upon the back of her seat and
proceeded to make himself volubly agreeable.
  "Yes, that is a great resort for Chicago people. The hotels are
swell. You are not familiar with this part of the country, are you?"
  "Oh, yes, I am," answered Carrie. "That is, I live at Columbia City.
I have never been through here, though."
  "And so this is your first visit to Chicago," he observed.
  All the time she was conscious of certain features out of the side
of her eye. Flush, colourful cheeks, a light moustache, a grey
fedora hat. She now turned and looked upon him in full, the
instincts of self-protection and coquetry mingling confusedly in her
brain.
  "I didn't say that," she said.
  "Oh," he answered, in a very pleasing way and with an assumed air of
mistake, "I thought you did."
  Here was a type of the travelling canvasser for a manufacturing
house- a class which at that time was first being dubbed by the
slang of the day "drummers." He came within the meaning of a still
newer term, which had sprung into general use among Americans in 1880,
and which concisely expressed the thought of one whose dress or
manners are calculated to elicit the admiration of susceptible young
women- a "masher." His suit was of a striped and crossed pattern of
brown wool, new at that time, but since become familiar as a
business suit. The low crotch of the vest revealed a stiff shirt bosom
of white and pink stripes. From his coat sleeves protruded a pair of
linen cuffs of the same pattern, fastened with large, gold plate
buttons, set with the common yellow agates known as "cat's-eyes."
His fingers bore several rings- one, the ever-enduring heavy seal- and
from his vest dangled a neat gold watch chain, from which was
suspended the secret insignia of the Order of Elks. The whole suit was
rather tight-fitting, and was finished off with heavy-soled tan shoes,
highly polished, and the grey fedora hat. He was, for the order of
intellect represented, attractive, and whatever he had to recommend
him, you may be sure was not lost upon Carrie, in this, her first
glance.
  Lest this order of individual should permanently pass, let me put
down some of the most striking characteristics of his most
successful manner and method. Good clothes, of course, were the
first essential, the things without which he was nothing. A strong
physical nature, actuated by a keen desire for the feminine, was the
next. A mind free of any consideration of the problems or forces of
the world and actuated not by greed, but an insatiable love of
variable pleasure. His method was always simple. Its principal element
was daring, backed, of course, by an intense desire and admiration for
the sex. Let him meet with a young woman once and he would approach
her with an air of kindly familiarity, not unmixed with pleading,
which would result in most cases in a tolerant acceptance. If she
showed any tendency to coquetry he would be apt to straighten her tie,
or if she "took up" with him at all, to call her by her first name. If
he visited a department store it was to lounge familiarly over the
counter and ask some leading questions. In more exclusive circles,
on the train or in waiting stations, he went slower. If some seemingly
vulnerable object appeared he was all attention- to pass the
compliments of the day, to lead the way to the parlor car, carrying
her grip, or, failing that, to take a seat next her with the hope of
being able to court her to her destination. Pillows, books, a
foot-stool, the shade lowered; all these figured in the things which
he could do. If, when she reached her destination, he did not alight
and attend her baggage for her, it was because, in his own estimation,
he had signally failed.
  A woman should some day write the complete philosophy of clothes. No
matter how young, it is one of the things she wholly comprehends.
There is an indescribably faint line in the matter of man's apparel
which somehow divides for her those who are worth glancing at and
those who are not. Once an individual has passed this faint line on
the way downward he will get no glance from her. There is another line
at which the dress of a man will cause her to study her own. This line
the individual at her elbow now marked for Carrie. She became
conscious of an inequality. Her own plain blue dress, with its black
cotton tape trimmings, now seemed to her shabby. She felt the worn
state of her shoes.
  "Let's see," he went on, "I know quite a number of people in your
town. Morgenroth the clothier and Gibson the dry goods man."
  "Oh, do you?" she interrupted, aroused by memories of longings their
show windows had cost her.
  At last he had a clew to her interest, and followed it deftly. In
a few minutes he had come about into her seat. He talked of sales of
clothing, his travels, Chicago, and the amusements of that city.
  "If you are going there, you will enjoy it immensely. Have you
relatives?"
  "I am going to visit my sister," she explained.
  "You want to see Lincoln Park," he said, "and Michigan Boulevard.
They are putting up great buildings there. It's a second New York-
great. So much to see- theatres, crowds, fine houses- oh, you'll
like that."
  There was a little ache in her fancy of all he described. Her
insignificance in the presence of so much magnificence faintly
affected her. She realised that hers was not to be a round of
pleasure, and yet there was something promising in all the material
prospect he set forth. There was something satisfactory in the
attention of this individual with his good clothes. She could not help
smiling as he told her of some popular actress of whom she reminded
him. She was not silly, and yet attention of this sort had its weight.
  "You will be in Chicago some little time, won't you?" he observed at
one turn of the now easy conversation.
  "I don't know," said Carrie vaguely- a flash vision of the
possibility of her not securing employment rising in her mind.
  "Several weeks, anyhow," he said, looking steadily into her eyes.
  There was much more passing now than the mere words indicated. He
recognised the indescribable thing that made up for fascination and
beauty in her. She realised that she was of interest to him from the
one standpoint which a woman both delights in and fears. Her manner
was simple, though for the very reason that she had not yet learned
the many little affectations with which women conceal their true
feelings. Some things she did appeared bold. A clever companion- had
she ever had one- would have warned her never to look a man in the
eyes so steadily.
  "Why do you ask?" she said.
  "Well, I'm going to be there several weeks. I'm going to study stock
at our place and get new samples. I might show you 'round."
  "I don't know whether you can or not. I mean I don't know whether
I can. I shall be living with my sister, and-"
  "Well, if she minds, we'll fix that." He took out his pencil and a
little pocket note-book as if it were all settled. "What is your
address there?"
  She fumbled her purse which contained the address slip.
  He reached down in his hip pocket and took out a fat purse. It was
filled with slips of paper, some mileage books, a roll of
greenbacks. It impressed her deeply. Such a purse had never been
carried by any one attentive to her. Indeed, an experienced traveller,
a brisk man of the world, had never come within such close range
before. The purse, the shiny tan shoes, the smart new suit, and the
air with which he did things, built up for her a dim world of fortune,
of which he was the centre. It disposed her pleasantly toward all he
might do.
  He took out a neat business card, on which was engraved Bartlett,
Caryoe & Company, and down in the lefthand corner, Chas. H. Drouet.
  "That's me," he said, putting the card in her hand and touching
his name. "It's pronounced Drew-eh. Our family was French, on my
father's side."
  She looked at it while he put up his purse. Then he got out a letter
from a bunch in his coat pocket. "This is the house I travel for,"
he went on, pointing to a picture on it, "corner of State and Lake."
There was pride in his voice. He felt that it was something to be
connected with such a place, and he made her feel that way.
  "What is your address?" he began again, fixing his pencil to write.
  "Carrie Meeber," she said slowly. "Three hundred and fifty-four West
Van Buren Street, care S. C. Hanson."
  He wrote it carefully down and got out the purse again. "You'll be
at home if I come around Monday night?" he said.
  "I think so," she answered.
  How true it is that words are but the vague shadows of the volumes
we mean. Little audible links, they are, chaining together great
inaudible feelings and purposes. Here were these two, bandying
little phrases, drawing purses, looking at cards, and both unconscious
of how inarticulate all their real feelings were. Neither was wise
enough to be sure of the working of the mind of the other. He could
not tell how his luring succeeded. She could not realise that she
was drifting, until he secured her address. Now she felt that she
had yielded something- he, that he had gained a victory. Already
they felt that they were somehow associated. Already he took control
in directing the conversation. His words were easy. Her manner was
relaxed.
  They were nearing Chicago. Signs were everywhere numerous. Trains
flashed by them. Across wide stretches of flat, open prairie they
could see lines of telegraph poles stalking across the fields toward
the great city. Far away were indications of suburban towns, some
big smoke-stacks towering high in the air.
  Frequently there were two-story frame houses standing out in the
open fields, without fence or trees, lone outposts of the
approaching army of homes.
  To the child, the genius with imagination, or the wholly
untravelled, the approach to a great city for the first time is a
wonderful thing. Particularly if it be evening- that mystic period
between the glare and gloom of the world when life is changing from
one sphere or condition to another. Ah, the promise of the night. What
does it not hold for the weary! What old illusion of hope is not
here forever repeated! Says the soul of the toiler to itself, "I shall
soon be free. I shall be in the ways and the hosts of the merry. The
streets, the lamps, the lighted chamber set for dining, are for me.
The theatre, the halls, the parties, the ways of rest and the paths of
song- these are mine in the night." Though all humanity be still
enclosed in the shops, the thrill runs abroad. It is in the air. The
dullest feel something which they may not always express or
describe. It is the lifting of the burden of toil.
  Sister Carrie gazed out of the window. Her companion, affected by
her wonder, so contagious are all things, felt anew some interest in
the city and pointed out its marvels.
  "This is Northwest Chicago," said Drouet. "This is the Chicago
River," and he pointed to a little muddy creek, crowded with the
huge masted wanderers from far-off waters nosing the black-posted
banks. With a puff, a clang, and a clatter of rails it was gone.
"Chicago is getting to be a great town," he went on. "It's a wonder.
You'll find lots to see here."
  She did not hear this very well. Her heart was troubled by a kind of
terror. The fact that she was alone, away from home, rushing into a
great sea of life and endeavour, began to tell. She could not help but
feel a little choked for breath- a little sick as her heart beat so
fast. She half closed her eyes and tried to think it was nothing, that
Columbia City was only a little way off.
  "Chicago! Chicago!" called the brakeman, slamming open the door.
They were rushing into a more crowded yard, alive with the clatter and
clang of life. She began to gather up her poor little grip and
closed her hand firmly upon her purse. Drouet arose, kicked his legs
to straighten his trousers, and seized his clean yellow grip.
  "I suppose your people will be here to meet you?" he said. "Let me
carry your grip."
  "Oh, no," she said. "I'd rather you wouldn't. I'd rather you
wouldn't be with me when I meet my sister."
  "All right," he said in all kindness. "I'll be near, though, in case
she isn't here, and take you out there safely."
  "You're so kind," said Carrie, feeling the goodness of such
attention in her strange situation.
  "Chicago!" called the brakeman, drawing the word out long. They were
under a great shadowy train shed, where the lamps were already
beginning to shine out, with passenger cars all about and the train
moving at a snail's pace. The people in the car were all up and
crowding about the door.
  "Well, here we are," said Drouet, leading the way to the door.
"Good-bye, till I see you Monday."
  "Good-bye," she answered, taking his proffered hand.
  "Remember, I'll be looking till you find your sister."
  She smiled into his eyes.
  They filed out, and he affected to take no notice of her. A
lean-faced, rather commonplace woman recognised Carrie on the platform
and hurried forward.
  "Why, Sister Carrie!" she began, and there was a perfunctory embrace
of welcome.
  Carrie realised the change of affectional atmosphere at once. Amid
all the maze, uproar, and novelty she felt cold reality taking her
by the hand. No world of light and merriment. No round of amusement.
Her sister carried with her most of the grimness of shift and toil.
  "Why, how are all the folks at home?" she began; "how is father, and
mother?"
  Carrie answered, but was looking away. Down the aisle, toward the
gate leading into the waiting-room and the street, stood Drouet. He
was looking back. When he saw that she saw him and was safe with her
sister he turned to go, sending back the shadow of a smile. Only
Carrie saw it. She felt something lost to her when he moved away. When
he disappeared she felt his absence thoroughly. With her sister she
was much alone, a lone figure in a tossing, thoughtless sea.
                        Chapter II.
        WHAT POVERTY THREATENED: OF GRANITE AND BRASS

  Minnie's flat, as the one-floor resident apartments were then
being called, was in a part of West Van Buren Street inhabited by
families of labourers and clerks, men who had come, and were still
coming, with the rush of population pouring in at the rate of 50,000 a
year. It was on the third floor, the front windows looking down into
the street, where, at night, the lights of grocery stores were shining
and children were playing. To Carrie, the sound of the little bells
upon the horse-cars, as they tinkled in and out of hearing, was as
pleasing as it was novel. She gazed into the lighted street when
Minnie brought her into the front room, and wondered at the sounds,
the movement, the murmur of the vast city which stretched for miles
and miles in every direction.
  Mrs. Hanson, after the first greetings were over, gave Carrie the
baby and proceeded to get supper. Her husband asked a few questions
and sat down to read the evening paper. He was a silent man,
American born, of a Swede father, and now employed as a cleaner of
refrigerator cars at the stock-yards. To him the presence or absence
of his wife's sister was a matter of indifference. Her personal
appearance did not affect him one way or the other. His one
observation to the point was concerning the chances of work in
Chicago.
  "It's a big place," he said. "You can get in somewhere in a few
days. Everybody does."
  It had been tacitly understood beforehand that she was to get work
and pay her board. He was of a clean, saving disposition, and had
already paid a number of monthly instalments on two lots far out on
the West Side. His ambition was some day to build a house on them.
  In the interval which marked the preparation of the meal Carrie
found time to study the flat. She had some slight gift of
observation and that sense, so rich in every woman- intuition.
  She felt the drag of a lean and narrow life. The walls of the
rooms were discordantly papered. The floors were covered with
matting and the hall laid with a thin rag carpet. One could see that
the furniture was of that poor, hurriedly patched together quality
sold by the instalment houses.
  She sat with Minnie, in the kitchen, holding the baby until it began
to cry. Then she walked and sang to it, until Hanson, disturbed in his
reading, came and took it. A pleasant side to his nature came out
here. He was patient. One could see that he was very much wrapped up
in his offspring.
  "Now, now," he said, walking. "There, there," and there was a
certain Swedish accent noticeable in his voice.
  "You'll want to see the city first, won't you?" said Minnie, when
they were eating. "Well, we'll go out Sunday and see Lincoln Park."
  Carrie noticed that Hanson had said nothing to this. He seemed to be
thinking of something else.
  "Well," she said, "I think I'll look around to-morrow. I've got
Friday and Saturday, and it won't be any trouble. Which way is the
business part?"
  Minnie began to explain, but her husband took this part of the
conversation to himself.
  "It's that way," he said, pointing east. "That's east." Then he went
off into the longest speech he had yet indulged in, concerning the lay
of Chicago. "You'd better look in those big manufacturing houses along
Franklin Street and just the other side of the river," he concluded.
"Lots of girls work there. You could get home easy, too. It isn't very
far."
  Carrie nodded and asked her sister about the neighbourhood. The
latter talked in a subdued tone, telling the little she knew about it,
while Hanson concerned himself with the baby. Finally he jumped up and
handed the child to his wife.
  "I've got to get up early in the morning, so I'll go to bed," and
off he went, disappearing into the dark little bedroom off the hall,
for the night.
  "He works way down at the stock-yards," explained Minnie,
  "What time do you get up to get breakfast?" asked Carrie. "so he's
got to get up at half-past five."
  "At about twenty minutes of five."
  Together they finished the labour of the day, Carrie washing the
dishes while Minnie undressed the baby and put it to bed. Minnie's
manner was one of trained industry, and Carrie could see that it was a
steady round of toil with her.
  She began to see that her relations with Drouet would have to be
abandoned. He could not come here. She read from the manner of Hanson,
in the subdued air of Minnie, and, indeed, the whole atmosphere of the
flat, a settled opposition to anything save a conservative round of
toil. If Hanson sat every evening in the front room and read his
paper, if he went to bed at nine, and Minnie a little later, what
would they expect of her? She saw that she would first need to get
work and establish herself on a paying basis before she could think of
having company of any sort. Her little flirtation with Drouet seemed
now an extraordinary thing.
  "No," she said to herself, "he can't come here."
  She asked Minnie for ink and paper, which were upon the mantel in
the dining-room, and when the latter had gone to bed at ten, got out
Drouet's card and wrote him.
  "I cannot have you call on me here. You will have to wait until
you hear from me again. My sister's place is so small."
  She troubled herself over what else to put in the letter. She wanted
to make some reference to their relations upon the train, but was
too timid. She concluded by thanking him for his kindness in a crude
way, then puzzled over the formality of signing her name, and
finally decided upon the severe, winding up with a "Very truly," which
she subsequently changed to "Sincerely." She sealed and addressed
the letter, and going in the front room, the alcove of which contained
her bed, drew the one small rocking-chair up to the open window, and
sat looking out upon the night and streets in silent wonder.
Finally, wearied by her own reflections, she began to grow dull in her
chair, and feeling the need of sleep, arranged her clothing for the
night and went to bed.
  When she awoke at eight the next morning, Hanson had gone. Her
sister was busy in the dining-room, which was also the sitting-room,
sewing. She worked, after dressing, to arrange a little breakfast
for herself, and then advised with Minnie as to which way to look. The
latter had changed considerably since Carrie had seen her. She was now
a thin, though rugged, woman of twenty-seven, with ideas of life
coloured by her husband's, and fast hardening into narrower
conceptions of pleasure and duty than had ever been hers in a
thoroughly circumscribed youth. She had invited Carrie, not because
she longed for her presence, but because the latter was dissatisfied
at home, and could probably get work and pay her board here. She was
pleased to see her in a way, but reflected her husband's point of view
in the matter of work. Anything was good enough so long as it paid-
say, five dollars a week to begin with. A shop girl was the destiny
prefigured for the newcomer. She would get in one of the great shops
and do well enough until- well, until something happened. Neither of
them knew exactly what. They did not figure on promotion. They did not
exactly count on marriage. Things would go on, though, in a dim kind
of way until the better thing would eventuate, and Carrie would be
rewarded for coming and toiling in the city. It was under such
auspicious circumstances that she started out this morning to look for
work.
  Before following her in her round of seeking, let us look at the
sphere in which her future was to lie. In 1889 Chicago had the
peculiar qualifications of growth which made such adventuresome
pilgrimages even on the part of young girls plausible. Its many and
growing commercial opportunities gave it widespread fame, which made
of it a giant magnet, drawing to itself, from all quarters, the
hopeful and the hopeless- those who had their fortune yet to make
and those whose fortunes and affairs had reached a disastrous climax
elsewhere. It was a city of over 500,000, with the ambition, the
daring, the activity of a metropolis of a million. Its streets and
houses were already scattered over an area of seventy-five square
miles. Its population was not so much thriving upon established
commerce as upon the industries which prepared for the arrival of
others. The sound of the hammer engaged upon the erection of new
structures was everywhere heard. Great industries were moving in.
The huge railroad corporations which had long before recognised the
prospects of the place had seized upon vast tracts of land for
transfer and shipping purposes. Street-car lines had been extended far
out into the open country in anticipation of rapid growth. The city
had laid miles and miles of streets and sewers through regions
where, perhaps, one solitary house stood out alone- a pioneer of the
populous ways to be. There were regions open to the sweeping winds and
rain, which were yet lighted throughout the night with long,
blinking lines of gas-lamps, fluttering in the wind. Narrow board
walks extended out, passing here a house, and there a store, at far
intervals, eventually ending on the open prairie.
  In the central portion was the vast wholesale and shopping district,
to which the uninformed seeker for work usually drifted. It was a
characteristic of Chicago then, and one not generally shared by
other cities, that individual firms of any pretension occupied
individual buildings. The presence of ample ground made this possible.
It gave an imposing appearance to most of the wholesale houses,
whose offices were upon the ground floor and in plain view of the
street. The large plates of window glass, now so common, were then
rapidly coming into use, and gave to the ground floor offices a
distinguished and prosperous look. The casual wanderer could see as he
passed a polished array of office fixtures, much frosted glass, clerks
hard at work, and genteel business men in "nobby" suits and clean
linen lounging about or sitting in groups. Polished brass or nickel
signs at the square stone entrances announced the firm and the
nature of the business in rather neat and reserved terms. The entire
metropolitan centre possessed a high and mighty air calculated to
overawe and abash the common applicant, and to make the gulf between
poverty and success seem both wide and deep.
  Into this important commercial region the timid Carrie went. She
walked east along Van Buren Street through a region of lessening
importance, until it deteriorated into a mass of shanties and
coal-yards, and finally verged upon the river. She walked bravely
forward, led by an honest desire to find employment and delayed at
every step by the interest of the unfolding scene, and a sense of
helplessness amid so much evidence of power and force which she did
not understand. These vast buildings, what were they? These strange
energies and huge interests, for what purposes were they there? She
could have understood the meaning of a little stone-cutter's yard at
Columbia City, carving little pieces of marble for individual use, but
when the yards of some huge stone corporation came into view, filled
with spur tracks and flat cars, transpierced by docks from the river
and traversed overhead by immense trundling cranes of wood and
steel, it lost all significance in her little world.
  It was so with the vast railroad yards, with the crowded array of
vessels she saw at the river, and the huge factories over the way,
lining the water's edge. Through the open windows she could see the
figures of men and women in working aprons, moving busily about. The
great streets were wall-lined mysteries to her; the vast offices,
strange mazes which concerned far-off individuals of importance. She
could only think of people connected with them as counting money,
dressing magnificently, and riding in carriages. What they dealt in,
how they laboured, to what end it all came, she had only the vaguest
conception. It was all wonderful, all vast, all far removed, and she
sank in spirit inwardly and fluttered feebly at the heart as she
thought of entering any one of these mighty concerns and asking for
something to do- something that she could do- anything.
                       Chapter III.
          WE QUESTION OF FORTUNE: FOUR-FIFTY A WEEK

  Once across the river and into the wholesale district, she glanced
about her for some likely door at which to apply. As she
contemplated the wide windows and imposing signs, she became conscious
of being gazed upon and understood for what she was- a wage-seeker.
She had never done this thing before, and lacked courage. To avoid a
certain indefinable shame she felt at being caught spying about for
a position, she quickened her steps and assumed an air of indifference
supposedly common to one upon an errand. In this way she passed many
manufacturing and wholesale houses without once glancing in. At
last, after several blocks of walking, she felt that this would not
do, and began to look about again; though without relaxing her pace. A
little way on she saw a great door which, for some reason, attracted
her attention. It was ornamented by a small brass sign, and seemed
to be the entrance to a vast hive of six or seven floors. "Perhaps,"
she thought, "they may want some one," and crossed over to enter. When
she came within a score of feet of the desired goal, she saw through
the window a young man in a grey checked suit. That he had anything to
do with the concern, she could not tell, but because he happened to be
looking in her direction her weakening heart misgave her and she
hurried by, too overcome with shame to enter. Over the way stood a
great six-story structure, labelled Storm and King, which she viewed
with rising hope. It was a wholesale dry goods concern and employed
women. She could see them moving about now and then upon the upper
floors. This place she decided to enter, no matter what. She crossed
over and walked directly toward the entrance. As she did so, two men
came out and paused in the door. A telegraph messenger in blue
dashed past her and up the few steps that led to the entrance and
disappeared. Several pedestrians out of the hurrying throng which
filled the sidewalks passed about her as she paused, hesitating. She
looked helplessly around, and then, seeing herself observed,
retreated. It was too difficult a task. She could not go past them.
  So severe a defeat told sadly upon her nerves. Her feet carried
her mechanically forward, every foot of her progress being a
satisfactory portion of a flight which she gladly made. Block after
block passed by. Upon street-lamps at the various corners she read
names such as Madison, Monroe, La Salle, Clark, Dearborn, State, and
still she went, her feet beginning to tire upon the broad stone
flagging. She was pleased in part that the streets were bright and
clean. The morning sun, shining down with steadily increasing
warmth, made the shady side of the streets pleasantly cool. She looked
at the blue sky overhead with more realisation of its charm than had
ever come to her before.
  Her cowardice began to trouble her in a way. She turned back,
resolving to bunt up Storm and King and enter. On the way she
encountered a great wholesale shoe company, through the broad plate
windows of which she saw an enclosed executive department, hidden by
frosted glass. Without this enclosure, but just within the street
entrance, sat a grey-haired gentleman at a small table, with a large
open ledger before him. She walked by this institution several times
hesitating, but, finding herself unobserved, faltered past the
screen door and stood humbly waiting.
  "Well, young lady," observed the old gentleman, looking at her
somewhat kindly, "what is it you wish?"
  "I am, that is, do you- I mean, do you need any help?" she
stammered.
  "Not just at present," he answered smiling. "Not just at present.
Come in some time next week. Occasionally we need some one."
  She received the answer in silence and backed awkwardly out. The
pleasant nature of her reception rather astonished her. She had
expected that it would be more difficult, that something cold and
harsh would be said- she knew not what. That she had not been put to
shame and made to feel her unfortunate position, seemed remarkable.
  Somewhat encouraged, she ventured into another large structure. It
was a clothing company, and more people were in evidence- well-dressed
men of forty and more, surrounded by brass railings.
  An office boy approached her.
  "Who is it you wish to see?" he asked.
  "I want to see the manager," she said.
  He ran away and spoke to one of a group of three men who were
conferring together. One of these came towards her.
  "Well?" he said coldly. The greeting drove all courage from her at
once.
  "Do you need any help?" she stammered.
  "No," he replied abruptly, and turned upon his heel.
  She went foolishly out, the office boy deferentially swinging the
door for her, and gladly sank into the obscuring crowd. It was a
severe setback to her recently pleased mental state.
  Now she walked quite aimlessly for a time, turning here and there,
seeing one great company after another, but finding no courage to
prosecute her single inquiry. High noon came, and with it hunger.
She hunted out an unassuming restaurant and entered, but was disturbed
to find that the prices were exorbitant for the size of her purse. A
bowl of soup was all that she could afford, and, with this quickly
eaten, she went out again. It restored her strength somewhat and
made her moderately bold to pursue the search.
  In walking a few blocks to fix upon some probable place, she again
encountered the firm of Storm and King, and this time managed to get
in. Some gentlemen were conferring close at hand, but took no notice
of her. She was left standing, gazing nervously upon the floor. When
the limit of her distress had been nearly reached, she was beckoned to
by a man at one of the many desks within the near-by railing.
  "Who is it you wish to see?" he inquired.
  "Why, any one, if you please," she answered. "I am looking for
something to do."
  "Oh, you want to see Mr. McManus," he returned. "Sit down," and he
pointed to a chair against the neighbouring wall. He went on leisurely
writing, until after a time a short, stout gentleman came in from
the street.
  "Mr. McManus," called the man at the desk, "this young woman wants
to see you."
  The short gentleman turned about towards Carrie, and she arose and
came forward.
  "What can I do for you, miss?" he inquired, surveying her curiously.
  "I want to know if I can get a position," she inquired.
  "As what?" he asked.
  "Not as anything in particular," she faltered.
  "Have you ever had any experience in the wholesale dry goods
business?" he questioned.
  "No, sir," she replied.
  "Are you a stenographer or typewriter?"
  "No, sir."
  "Well, we haven't anything here," he said. "We employ only
experienced help."
  She began to step backward toward the door, when something about her
plaintive face attracted him.
  "Have you ever worked at anything before?" he inquired.
  "No, sir," she said.
  "Well, now, it's hardly possible that you would get anything to do
in a wholesale house of this kind. Have you tried the department
stores?"
  She acknowledged that she had not.
  "Well, if I were you," he said, looking at her rather genially "I
would try the department stores. They often need young women as
clerks."
  "Thank you," she said, her whole nature relieved by this spark of
friendly interest.
  "Yes," he said, as she moved toward the door, "you try the
department stores," and off he went.
  At that time the department store was in its earliest form of
successful operation, and there were not many. The first three in
the United States, established about 1884, were in Chicago. Carrie was
familiar with the names of several through the advertisements in the
"Daily News," and now proceeded to seek them. The words of Mr. McManus
had somehow managed to restore her courage, which had fallen low,
and she dared to hope that this new line would offer her something.
Some time she spent in wandering up and down, thinking to encounter
the buildings by chance, so readily is the mind, bent upon prosecuting
a hard but needful errand, eased by that self-deception which the
semblance of search, without the reality, gives. At last she
inquired of a police officer, and was directed to proceed "two
blocks up," where she would find "The Fair."
  The nature of these vast retail combinations, should they ever
permanently disappear, will form an interesting chapter in the
commercial history of our nation. Such a flowering out of a modest
trade principle the world had never witnessed up to that time. They
were along the line of the most effective retail organisation, with
hundreds of stores coordinated into one and laid out upon the most
imposing and economic basis. They were handsome, bustling,
successful affairs, with a host of clerks and a swarm of patrons.
Carrie passed along the busy aisles, much affected by the remarkable
displays of trinkets, dress goods, stationery, and jewelry. Each
separate counter was a show place of dazzling interest and attraction.
She could not help feeling the claim of each trinket and valuable upon
her personally, and yet she did not stop. There was nothing there
which she could not have used- nothing which she did not long to
own. The dainty slippers and stockings, the delicately frilled
skirts and petticoats, the laces, ribbons, hair-combs, purses, all
touched her with individual desire, and she felt keenly the fact
that not any of these things were in the range of her purchase. She
was a work-seeker, an outcast without employment, one whom the average
employee could tell at a glance was poor and in need of a situation.
  It must not be thought that any one could have mistaken her for a
nervous, sensitive, high-strung nature, cast unduly upon a cold,
calculating, and unpoetic world. Such certainly she was not. But women
are peculiarly sensitive to their adornment.
  Not only did Carrie feel the drag of desire for all which was new
and pleasing in apparel for women, but she noticed too, with a touch
at the heart, the fine ladies who elbowed and ignored her, brushing
past in utter disregard of her presence, themselves eagerly enlisted
in the materials which the store contained. Carrie was not familiar
with the appearance of her more fortunate sisters of the city. Neither
had she before known the nature and appearance of the shop girls
with whom she now compared poorly. They were pretty in the main,
some even handsome, with an air of independence and indifference which
added, in the case of the more favoured, a certain piquancy. Their
clothes were neat, in many instances fine, and wherever she
encountered the eye of one it was only to recognise in it a keen
analysis of her own position- her individual shortcomings of dress and
that shadow of manner which she thought must hang about her and make
clear to all who and what she was. A flame of envy lighted in her
heart. She realised in a dim way how much the city held- wealth,
fashion, ease- every adornment for women, and she longed for dress and
beauty with a whole heart.
  On the second floor were the managerial offices, to which, after
some inquiry, she was now directed. There she found other girls
ahead of her, applicants like herself, but with more of that
self-satisfied and independent air which experience of the city lends;
girls who scrutinised her in a painful manner. After a wait of perhaps
three-quarters of an hour, she was called in turn.
  "Now," said a sharp, quick-mannered Jew, who was sitting at a
roll-top desk near the window, "have you ever worked in any other
store?"
  "No, sir," said Carrie.
  "Oh, you haven't," he said, eyeing her keenly.
  "No, sir," she replied.
  "Well, we prefer young women just now with some experience. I
guess we can't use you."
  Carrie stood waiting a moment, hardly certain whether the
interview had terminated.
  "Don't wait!" he exclaimed. "Remember we are very busy here."
  Carrie began to move quickly to the door.
  "Hold on," he said, calling her back. "Give me your name and
address. We want girls occasionally."
  When she had gotten safely into the street, she could scarcely
restrain the tears. It was not so much the particular rebuff which she
had just experienced, but the whole abashing trend of the day. She was
tired and nervous. She abandoned the thought of appealing to the other
department stores and now wandered on, feeling a certain safety and
relief in mingling with the crowd.
  In her indifferent wandering she turned into Jackson Street, not far
from the river, and was keeping her way along the south side of that
imposing thoroughfare, when a piece of wrapping paper, written on with
marking ink and tacked up on the door, attracted her attention. It
read, "Girls wanted- wrappers & stitchers." She hesitated a moment,
then entered.
  The firm of Speigelheim & Co., makers of boys' caps, occupied one
floor of the building, fifty feet in width and some eighty feet in
depth. It was a place rather dingily lighted, the darkest portions
having incandescent lights, filled with machines and work benches.
At the latter laboured quite a company of girls and some men. The
former were drabby-looking creatures, stained in face with oil and
dust, clad in thin, shapeless, cotton dresses and shod with more or
less worn shoes. Many of them had their sleeves rolled up, revealing
bare arms, and in some cases, owing to the heat, their dresses were
open at the neck. They were a fair type of nearly the lowest order
of shop-girls- careless, slouchy, and more or less pale from
confinement. They were not timid, however; were rich in curiosity, and
strong in daring and slang.
  Carrie looked about her, very much disturbed and quite sure that she
did not want to work here. Aside from making her uncomfortable by
sidelong glances, no one paid her the least attention. She waited
until the whole department was aware of her presence. Then some word
was sent around, and a foreman, in an apron and shirt sleeves, the
latter rolled up to his shoulders, approached.
  "Do you want to see me?" he asked.
  "Do you need any help?" said Carrie, already learning directness
of address.
  "Do you know how to stitch caps?" he returned.
  "No, sir," she replied.
  "Have you ever had any experience at this kind of work?" he
inquired.
  She answered that she had not.
  "Well," said the foreman, scratching his ear meditatively, "we do
need a stitcher. We like experienced help, though. We've hardly got
time to break people in." He paused and looked away out of the window.
"We might, though, put you at finishing," he concluded reflectively.
  "How much do you pay a week?" ventured Carrie, emboldened by a
certain softness in the man's manner and his simplicity of address.
  "Three and a half," he answered.
  "Oh," she was about to exclaim, but checked herself and allowed
her thoughts to die without expression.
  "We're not exactly in need of anybody," he went on vaguely,
looking her over as one would a package. "You can come on Monday
morning, though," he added, "and I'll put you to work."
  "Thank you," said Carrie weakly.
  "If you come, bring an apron," he added.
  He walked away and left her standing by the elevator, never so
much as inquiring her name.
  While the appearance of the shop and the announcement of the price
paid per week operated very much as a blow to Carrie's fancy, the fact
that work of any kind was offered after so rude a round of
experience was gratifying. She could not begin to believe that she
would take the place, modest as her aspirations were. She had been
used to better than that. Her mere experience and the free out-of-door
life of the country caused her nature to revolt at such confinement.
Dirt had never been her share. Her sister's flat was clean. This place
was grimy and low, the girls were careless and hardened. They must
be bad-minded and hearted, she imagined. Still, a place had been
offered her. Surely Chicago was not so bad if she could find one place
in one day. She might find another and better later.
  Her subsequent experiences were not of a reassuring nature, however.
From all the more pleasing or imposing places she was turned away
abruptly with the most chilling formality. In others where she applied
only the experienced were required. She met with painful rebuffs,
the most trying of which had been in a manufacturing cloak house,
where she had gone to the fourth floor to inquire.
  "No, no," said the foreman, a rough, heavily built individual, who
looked after a miserably lighted workshop, "we don't want any one.
Don't come here."
  With the wane of the afternoon went her hopes, her courage, and
her strength. She had been astonishingly persistent. So earnest an
effort was well deserving of a better reward. On every hand, to her
fatigued senses, the great business portion grew larger, harder,
more stolid in its indifference. It seemed as if it was all closed
to her, that the struggle was too fierce for her to hope to do
anything at all. Men and women hurried by in long, shifting lines. She
felt the flow of the tide of effort and interest- felt her own
helplessness without quite realising the wisp on the tide that she
was. She cast about vainly for some possible place to apply, but found
no door which she had the courage to enter. It would be the same thing
all over. The old humiliation of her plea, rewarded by curt denial.
Sick at heart and in body, she turned to the west, the direction of
Minnie's flat, which she had now fixed in mind, and began that
wearisome, baffled retreat which the seeker for employment at
nightfall too often makes. In passing through Fifth Avenue, south
towards Van Buren Street, where she intended to take a car, she passed
the door of a large wholesale shoe house, through the plate-glass
window of which she could see a middle-aged gentleman sitting a a
small desk. One of those forlorn impulses which often grow out of a
fixed sense of defeat, the last sprouting of a baffled and uprooted
growth of ideas, seized upon her. She walked deliberately through
the door and up to the gentleman, who looked at her weary face with
partially awakened interest.
  "What is it?" he said.
  "Can you give me something to do?" said Carrie.
  "Now, I really don't know," he said kindly. "What kind of work is it
you want- you're not a typewriter, are you?"
  "Oh, no," answered Carrie.
  "Well, we only employ book-keepers and typewriters here. You might
go around to the side and inquire upstairs. They did want some help
upstairs a few days ago. Ask for Mr. Brown."
  She hastened around to the side entrance and was taken up by the
elevator to the fourth floor.
  "Call Mr. Brown, Willie," said the elevator man to a boy near by.
  Willie went off and presently returned with the information that Mr.
Brown said she should sit down and that he would be around in a little
while.
  It was a portion of the stock room which gave no idea of the general
character of the place, and Carrie could form no opinion of the nature
of the work.
  "So you want something to do," said Mr. Brown, after he inquired
concerning the nature of her errand. "Have you ever been employed in a
shoe factory before?"
  "No, sir," said Carrie.
  "What is your name?" he inquired, and being informed, "Well, I don't
know as I have anything for you. Would you work for four and a half
a week?"
  Carrie was too worn by defeat not to feel that it was
considerable. She had not expected that he would offer her less than
six. She acquiesced, however, and he took her name and address.
  "Well," he said, finally, "you report here at eight o'clock Monday
morning. I think I can find something for you to do."
  He left her revived by the possibilities, sure that she had found
something at last. Instantly the blood crept warmly over her body. Her
nervous tension relaxed. She walked out into the busy street and
discovered a new atmosphere. Behold, the throng was moving with a
lightsome step. She noticed that men and women were smiling. Scraps of
conversation and notes of laughter floated to her. The air was
light. People were already pouring out of the buildings, their
labour ended for the day. She noticed that they were pleased, and
thoughts of her sister's home and the meal that would be awaiting
her quickened her steps. She hurried on, tired perhaps, but no
longer weary of foot. What would not Minnie say! Ah, the long winter
in Chicago- the lights, the crowd, the amusement! This was a great,
pleasing metropolis after all. Her new firm was a goodly
institution. Its windows were of huge plate glass. She could
probably do well there. Thoughts of Drouet returned- of the things
he had told her. She now felt that life was better, that it was
livelier, sprightlier. She boarded a car in the best of spirits,
feeling her blood still flowing pleasantly. She would live in Chicago,
her mind kept saying to itself. She would have a better time than
she had ever had before- she would be happy.
                        Chapter IV.
       THE SPENDINGS OF FANCY: FACTS ANSWER WITH SNEERS

  For the next two days Carrie indulged in the most high-flown
speculations.
  Her fancy plunged recklessly into privileges and amusements which
would have been much more becoming had she been cradled a child of
fortune. With ready will and quick mental selection she scattered
her meagre four-fifty per week with a swift and graceful hand. Indeed,
as she sat in her rocking-chair these several evenings before going to
bed and looked out upon the pleasantly lighted street, this money
cleared for its prospective possessor the way to every joy and every
bauble which the heart of woman may desire. "I will have a fine time,"
she thought.
  Her sister Minnie knew nothing of these rather wild cerebrations,
though they exhausted the markets of delight. She was too busy
scrubbing the kitchen woodwork and calculating the purchasing power of
eighty cents for Sunday's dinner. When Carrie had returned home,
flushed with her first success and ready, for all her weariness, to
discuss the now interesting events which led up to her achievement,
the former had merely smiled approvingly and inquired whether she
would have to spend any of it for car fare. This consideration had not
entered in before, and it did not now for long affect the glow of
Carrie's enthusiasm. Disposed as she then was to calculate upon that
vague basis which allows the subtraction of one sum from another
without any perceptible diminution, she was happy.
  When Hanson came home at seven o'clock, he was inclined to be a
little crusty- his usual demeanour before supper. This never showed so
much in anything he said as in a certain solemnity of countenance
and the silent manner in which he slopped about. He had a pair of
yellow carpet slippers which he enjoyed wearing, and these he would
immediately substitute for his solid pair of shoes. This, and
washing his face with the aid of common washing soap until it glowed a
shiny red, constituted his only preparation for his evening meal. He
would then get his evening paper and read in silence.
  For a young man, this was rather a morbid turn of character, and
so affected Carrie. Indeed, it affected the entire atmosphere of the
flat, as such things are inclined to do, and gave to his wife's mind
its subdued and tactful turn, anxious to avoid taciturn replies. Under
the influence of Carrie's announcement he brightened up somewhat.
  "You didn't lose any time, did you?" he remarked, smiling a little.
  "No," returned Carrie with a touch of pride.
  He asked her one or two more questions and then turned to play
with the baby, leaving the subject until it was brought up again by
Minnie at the table.
  Carrie, however, was not to be reduced to the common level of
observation which prevailed in the flat.
  "It seems to be such a large company," she said at one place. "Great
big plate-glass windows and lots of clerks. The man I saw said they
hired ever so many people."
  "It's not very hard to get work now," put in Hanson, "if you look
right."
  Minnie, under the warming influence of Carrie's good spirits and her
husband's somewhat conversational mood, began to tell Carrie of some
of the well-known things to see- things the enjoyment of which cost
nothing.
  "You'd like to see Michigan Avenue. There are such fine houses. It
is such a fine street."
  "Where is 'H. R. Jacob's'?" interrupted Carrie, mentioning one of
the theatres devoted to melodrama which went by that name at the time.
  "Oh, it's not very far from here," answered Minnie. "It's in
Halstead Street, right up here."
  "How I'd like to go there. I crossed Halstead Street to-day,
didn't I?"
  At this there was a slight halt in the natural reply. Thoughts are a
strangely permeating factor. At her suggestion of going to the
theatre, the unspoken shade of disapproval to the doing of those
things which involved the expenditure of money- shades of feeling
which arose in the mind of Hanson and then in Minnie- slightly
affected the atmosphere of the table. Minnie answered "yes," but
Carrie could feel that going to the theatre was poorly advocated here.
The subject was put off for a little while until Hanson, through
with his meal, took his paper and went into the front room.
  When they were alone, the two sisters began a somewhat freer
conversation, Carrie interrupting it to hum a little, as they worked
at the dishes.
  "I should like to walk up and see Halstead Street, if it isn't too
far," said Carrie, after a time. "Why don't we go to the theatre
to-night?"
  "Oh, I don't think Sven would want to go to-night," returned Minnie.
"He has to get up so early."
  "He wouldn't mind- he'd enjoy it," said Carrie.
  "No, he doesn't go very often," returned Minnie.
  "Well, I'd like to go," rejoined Carrie. "Let's you and me go."
  Minnie pondered a while, not upon whether she could or would go- for
that point was already negatively settled with her- but upon some
means of diverting the thoughts of her sister to some other topic.
  "We'll go some other time," she said at last, finding no ready means
of escape.
  Carrie sensed the root of the opposition at once.
  "I have some money," she said. "You go with me."
  Minnie shook her head.
  "He could go along," said Carrie.
  "No," returned Minnie softly, and rattling the dishes to drown the
conversation. "He wouldn't."
  It had been several years since Minnie had seen Carrie, and in
that time that latter's character had developed a few shades.
Naturally timid in all things that related to her own advancement, and
especially so when without power or resource, her craving for pleasure
was so strong that it was the one stay of her nature. She would
speak for that when silent on all else.
  "Ask him," she pleaded softly.
  Minnie was thinking of the resource which Carrie's board would
add. It would pay the rent and would make the subject of expenditure a
little less difficult to talk about with her husband. But if Carrie
was going to think of running around in the beginning there would be a
hitch somewhere. Unless Carrie submitted to a solemn round of industry
and saw the need of hard work without longing for play, how was her
coming to the city to profit them? These thoughts were not those of
a cold, hard nature at all. They were the serious reflections of a
mind which invariably adjusted itself, without much complaining, to
such surroundings as its industry could make for it.
  At last she yielded enough to ask Hanson. It was a half-hearted
procedure without a shade of desire on her part.
  "Carrie wants us to go to the theatre," she said, looking in upon
her husband. Hanson looked up from his paper, and they exchanged a
mild look, which said as plainly as anything: "This isn't what we
expected."
  "I don't care to go," he returned. "What does she want to see?"
  "H. R. Jacob's," said Minnie.
  He looked down at his paper and shook his head negatively.
  When Carrie saw how they looked upon her proposition, she gained a
still clearer feeling of their way of life. It weighed on her, but
took no definite form of opposition.
  "I think I'll go down and stand at the foot of the stairs," she
said, after a time.
  Minnie made no objection to this, and Carrie put on her hat and went
below.
  "Where has Carrie gone?" asked Hanson, coming back into the
dining-room when he heard the door close.
  "She said she was going down to the foot of the stairs," answered
Minnie. "I guess she just wants to look out a while."
  "She oughtn't to be thinking about spending her money on theatres
already, do you think?" he said.
  "She just feels a little curious, I guess," ventured Minnie.
"Everything is so new."
  "I don't know," said Hanson, and went over to the baby, his forehead
slightly wrinkled.
  He was thinking of a full career of vanity and wastefulness which
a young girl might indulge in, and wondering how Carrie could
contemplate such a course when she had so little, as yet, with which
to do.
  On Saturday Carrie went out by herself- first toward the river,
which interested her, and then back along Jackson Street, which was
then lined by the pretty houses and fine lawns which subsequently
caused it to be made into a boulevard. She was struck with the
evidences of wealth, although there was, perhaps, not a person on
the street worth more than a hundred thousand dollars. She was glad to
be out of the flat, because already she felt that it was a narrow,
humdrum place, and that interest and joy lay elsewhere. Her thoughts
now were of a more liberal character, and she punctuated them with
speculations as to the whereabouts of Drouet. She was not sure but
that he might call anyhow Monday night, and, while she felt a little
disturbed at the possibility, there was, nevertheless, just the
shade of a wish that he would.
  On Monday she arose early and prepared to go to work. She dressed
herself in a worn shirt-waist of dotted blue percale, a skirt of
light-brown serge rather faded, and a small straw hat which she had
worn all summer at Columbia City. Her shoes were old, and her
necktie was in that crumpled, flattened state which time and much
wearing impart. She made a very average looking shop-girl with the
exception of her features. These were slightly more even than
common, and gave her a sweet, reserved, and pleasing appearance.
  It is no easy thing to get up early in the morning when one is
used to sleeping until seven and eight, as Carrie had been at home.
She gained some inkling of the character of Hanson's life when, half
asleep, she looked out into the dining-room at six o'clock and saw him
silently finishing his breakfast. By the time she was dressed he was
gone, and she, Minnie, and the baby ate together, the latter being
just old enough to sit in a high chair and disturb the dishes with a
spoon. Her spirits were greatly subdued now when the fact of
entering upon strange and untried duties confronted her. Only the
ashes of all her fine fancies were remaining- ashes still
concealing, nevertheless, a few red embers of hope. So subdued was she
by her weakening nerves, that she ate quite in silence, going over
imaginary conceptions of the character of the shoe company the
nature of the work, her employer's attitude. She was vaguely feeling
that she would come in contact with the great owners, that her work
would be where grave, stylishly dressed men occasionally look on.
  "Well, good luck," said Minnie, when she was ready to go. They had
agreed it was best to walk, that morning at least, to see if she could
do it every day- sixty cents a week for car fare being quite an item
under the circumstances.
  "I'll tell you how it goes to-night," said Carrie.
  Once in the sunlit street, with labourers tramping by in either
direction, the horse-cars passing crowded to the rails with the
small clerks and floor help in the great wholesale houses, and men and
women generally coming out of doors and passing about the
neighbourhood, Carrie felt slightly reassured. In the sunshine of
the morning, beneath the wide, blue heavens, with a fresh wind
astir, what fears, except the most desperate, can find a harbourage?
In the night, or the gloomy chambers of the day, fears and
misgivings wax strong, but out in the sunlight there is, for a time,
cessation even of the terror of death.
  Carrie went straight forward until she crossed the river, and then
turned into Fifth Avenue. The thoroughfare, in this part, was like a
walled canon of brown stone and dark red brick. The big windows looked
shiny and clean. Trucks were rumbling in increasing numbers; men and
women, girls and boys were moving onward in all directions. She met
girls of her own age, who looked at her as if with contempt for her
diffidence. She wondered at the magnitude of this life and at the
importance of knowing much in order to do anything in it at all. Dread
at her own inefficiency crept upon her. She would not know how, she
would not be quick enough. Had not all the other places refused her
because she did not know something or other? She would be scolded,
abused, ignominiously discharged.
  It was with weak knees and a slight catch in her breathing that
she came up to the great shoe company at Adams and Fifth Avenue and
entered the elevator. When she stepped out on the fourth floor there
was no one at hand, only great aisles of boxes piled to the ceiling.
She stood, very much frightened, awaiting some one.
  Presently Mr. Brown came up. He did not seem to recognise her.
  "What is it you want?" he inquired.
  Carrie's heart sank.
  "You said I should come this morning to see about work-"
  "Oh," he interrupted. "Um- yes. What is your name?"
  "Carrie Meeber."
  "Yes," said he. "You come with me."
  He led the way through dark, box-lined aisles which had the smell of
new shoes, until they came to an iron door which opened into the
factory proper. There was a large, low-ceiled room, with clacking,
rattling machines at which men in white shirt sleeves and blue gingham
aprons were working. She followed him diffidently through the
clattering automatons, keeping her eyes straight before her, and
flushing slightly. They crossed to a far corner and took an elevator
to the sixth floor. Out of the array of machines and benches, Mr.
Brown signalled a foreman.
  "This is the girl," he said, and turning to Carrie, "You go with
him." He then returned, and Carrie followed her new superior to a
little desk in a corner, which he used as a kind of official centre.
  "You've never worked at anything like this before, have you?" he
questioned, rather sternly.
  "No, sir," she answered.
  He seemed rather annoyed at having to bother with such help, but put
down her name and then led her across to where a line of girls
occupied stools in front of clacking machines. On the shoulder of
one of the girls who was punching eye-holes in one piece of the upper,
by the aid of the machine, he put his hand.
  "You," he said, "show this girl how to do what you're doing. When
you get through, come to me."
  The girl so addressed rose promptly and gave Carrie her place.
  "It isn't hard to do," she said, bending over. "You just take this
so, fasten it with this clamp, and start the machine."
  She suited action to word, fastened the piece of leather, which
was eventually to form the right half of the upper of a man's shoe, by
little adjustable clamps, and pushed a small steel rod at the side
of the machine. The latter jumped to the task of punching, with sharp,
snapping clicks, cutting circular bits of leather out of the side of
the upper, leaving the holes which were to hold the laces. After
observing a few times, the girl let her work at it alone. Seeing
that it was fairly well done, she went away.
  The pieces of leather came from the girl at the machine to her
right, and were passed on to the girl at her left. Carrie saw at
once that an average speed was necessary or the work would pile up
on her and all those below would be delayed. She had no time to look
about, and bent anxiously to her task. The girls at her left and right
realised her predicament and feelings, and, in a way, tried to aid
her, as much as they dared, by working slower.
  At this task she laboured incessantly for some time, finding
relief from her own nervous fears and imaginings in the humdrum,
mechanical movement of the machine. She felt, as the minutes passed,
that the room was not very light. It had a thick odour of fresh
leather, but that did not worry her. She felt the eyes of the other
help upon her, and troubled lest she was not working fast enough.
  Once, when she was fumbling at the little clamp, having made a
slight error in setting in the leather, a great hand appeared before
her eyes and fastened the clamp for her. It was the foreman. Her heart
thumped so that she could scarcely see to go on.
  "Start your machine," he said, "start your machine. Don't keep the
line waiting."
  This recovered her sufficiently and she went excitedly on, hardly
breathing until the shadow moved away from behind her. Then she heaved
a great breath.
  As the morning wore on the room became hotter. She felt the need
of a breath of fresh air and a drink of water, but did not venture
to stir. The stool she sat on was without a back or foot-rest, and she
began to feel uncomfortable. She found, after a time, that her back
was beginning to ache. She twisted and turned from one position to
another slightly different, but it did not case her for long. She
was beginning to weary.
  "Stand up, why don't you?" said the girl at her right, without any
form of introduction. "They won't care."
  Carrie looked at her gratefully. "I guess I will," she said.
  She stood up from her stool and worked that way for a while, but
it was a more difficult position. Her neck and shoulders ached in
bending over.
  The spirit of the place impressed itself on her in a rough way.
She did not venture to look around, but above the clack of the machine
she could hear an occasional remark. She could also note a thing or
two out of the side of her eye.
  "Did you see Harry last night?" said the girl at her left,
addressing her neighbour.
  "No."
  "You ought to have seen the tie he had on. Gee, but he was a mark."
  "S-s-t," said the other girl, bending over her work. The first,
silenced, instantly assumed a solemn face. The foreman passed slowly
along, eyeing each worker distinctly. The moment he was gone, the
conversation was resumed again.
  "Say," began the girl at her left, "what jeh think he said?"
  "I don't know."
  "He said he saw us with Eddie Harris at Martin's last night."
  "No!" They both giggled.
  A youth with tan-coloured hair, that needed clipping very badly,
came shuffling along between the machines, bearing a basket of leather
findings under his left arm, and pressed against his stomach. When
near Carrie, he stretched out his right hand and gripped one girl
under the arm.
  "Aw, let me go," she exclaimed angrily. "Duffer."
  He only grinned broadly in return.
  "Rubber!" he called back as she looked after him. There was
nothing of the gallant in him.
  Carrie at last could scarcely sit still. Her legs began to tire
and she wanted to get up and stretch. Would noon never come? It seemed
as if she had worked an entire day. She was not hungry at all, but
weak, and her eyes were tired, straining at the one point where the
eye-punch came down. The girl at the right noticed her squirmings
and felt sorry for her. She was concentrating herself too
thoroughly- what she did really required less mental and physical
strain. There was nothing to be done, however. The halves of the
uppers came piling steadily down. Her hands began to ache at the
wrists and then in the fingers, and towards the last she seemed one
mass of dull, complaining muscles, fixed in an eternal position and
performing a single mechanical movement which became more and more
distasteful, until at last it was absolutely nauseating. When she
was wondering whether the strain would ever cease, a dull-sounding
bell clanged somewhere down an elevator shaft, and the end came. In an
instant there was a buzz of action and conversation. All the girls
instantly left their stools and hurried away in an adjoining room, men
passed through, coming from some department which opened on the right.
The whirling wheels began to sing in a steadily modifying key, until
at last they died away in a low buzz. There was an audible
stillness, in which the common voice sounded strange.
  Carrie got up and sought her lunch box. She was stiff, a little
dizzy, and very thirsty. On the way to the small space portioned off
by wood, where all the wraps and lunches were kept, she encountered
the foreman, who stared at her hard.
  "Well," he said, "did you get along all right?"
  "I think so," she replied, very respectfully.
  "Um," he replied, for want of something better, and walked on.
  Under better material conditions, this kind of work would not have
been so bad, but the new socialism which involves pleasant working
conditions for employees had not then taken hold upon manufacturing
companies.
  The place smelled of the oil of the machines and the new leather-
a combination which, added to the stale odours of the building, was
not pleasant even in cold weather. The floor, though regularly swept
every evening, presented a littered surface. Not the slightest
provision had been made for the comfort of the employees, the idea
being that something was gained by giving them as little and making
the work as hard and unremunerative as possible. What we know of
foot-rests, swivel-back chairs, dining-rooms for the girls, clean
aprons and curling irons supplied free, and a decent cloak room,
were unthought of. The washrooms were disagreeable, crude, if not foul
places, and the whole atmosphere was sordid.
  Carrie looked about her, after she had drunk a tinful of water
from a bucket in one corner, for a place to sit and eat. The other
girls had ranged themselves about the windows or the work-benches of
those of the men who had gone out. She saw no place which did not hold
a couple or a group of girls, and being too timid to think of
intruding herself, she sought out her machine and, seated upon her
stool, opened her lunch on her lap. There she sat listening to the
chatter and comment about her. It was, for the most part, silly and
graced by the current slang. Several of the men in the room
exchanged compliments with the girls at long range.
  "Say, Kitty," called one to a girl who was doing a waltz step in a
few feet of space near one of the windows, "are you going to the
ball with me?"
  "Look out, Kitty," called another, "you'll jar your back hair."
  "Go on, Rubber," was her only comment.
  As Carrie listened to this and much more of similar familiar
badinage among the men and girls, she instinctively withdrew into
herself. She was not used to this type, and felt that there was
something hard and low about it all. She feared that the young boys
about would address such remarks to her- boys who, beside Drouet,
seemed uncouth and ridiculous. She made the average feminine
distinction between clothes, putting worth, goodness, and
distinction in a dress suit, and leaving all the unlovely qualities
and those beneath notice in overalls and jumper.
  She was glad when the short half hour was over and the wheels
began to whirr again. Though wearied, she would be inconspicuous. This
illusion ended when another young man passed along the aisle and poked
her indifferently in the ribs with his thumb. She turned about,
indignation leaping to her eyes, but he had gone on and only once
turned to grin. She found it difficult to conquer an inclination to
cry.
  The girl next her noticed her state of mind. "Don't you mind," she
said. "He's too fresh."
  Carrie said nothing, but bent over her work. She felt as though
she could hardly endure such a life. Her idea of work had been so
entirely different. All during the long afternoon she thought of the
city outside and its imposing show, crowds, and fine buildings.
Columbia City and the better side of her home life came back. By three
o'clock she was sure it must be six, and by four it seemed as if
they had forgotten to note the hour and were letting all work
overtime. The foreman became a true ogre, prowling constantly about,
keeping her tied down to her miserable task. What she heard of the
conversation about her only made her feel sure that she did not want
to make friends with any of these. When six o'clock came she hurried
eagerly away, her arms aching and her limbs stiff from sitting in
one position.
  As she passed out along the hall after getting her hat, a young
machine hand, attracted by her looks, made bold to jest with her.
  "Say, Maggie," he called, "if you wait, I'll walk with you."
  It was thrown so straight in her direction that she knew who was
meant, but never turned to look.
  In the crowded elevator, another dusty, toil-stained youth tried
to make an impression on her by leering in her face.
  One young man, waiting on the walk outside for the appearance of
another, grinned at her as she passed.
  "Ain't going my way, are you?" he called jocosely.
  Carrie turned her face to the west with a subdued heart. As she
turned the corner, she saw through the great shiny window the small
desk at which she had applied. There were the crowds, hurrying with
the same buzz and energy-yielding enthusiasm. She felt a slight
relief, but it was only at her escape. She felt ashamed in the face of
better dressed girls who went by. She felt as though she should be
better served, and her heart revolted.
                        Chapter V.
         A GLITTERING NIGHT FLOWER: THE USE OF A NAME

  Drouet did not call that evening. After receiving the letter, he had
laid aside all thought of Carrie for the time being and was floating
around having what he considered a gay time. On this particular
evening he dined at "Rector's," a restaurant of some local fame, which
occupied a basement at Clark and Monroe Streets. Thereafter he visited
the resort of Fitzgerald and Moy's in Adams Street, opposite the
imposing Federal Building. There he leaned over the splendid bar and
swallowed a glass of plain whiskey and purchased a couple of cigars,
one of which he lighted. This to him represented in part high life-
a fair sample of what the whole must be.
  Drouet was not a drinker in excess. He was not a moneyed man. He
only craved the best, as his mind conceived it, and such doings seemed
to him a part of the best. Rector's, with its polished marble walls
and floor, its profusion of lights, its show of china and
silverware, and, above all, its reputation as a resort for actors
and professional men, seemed to him the proper place for a
successful man to go. He loved fine clothes, good eating, and
particularly the company and acquaintanceship of successful men.
When dining, it was a source of keen satisfaction to him to know
that Joseph Jefferson was wont to come to this same place, or that
Henry E. Dixie, a well-known performer of the day, was then only a few
tables off. At Rector's he could always obtain this satisfaction,
for there one could encounter politicians, brokers, actors, some
rich young "rounders" of the town, all eating and drinking amid a buzz
of popular commonplace conversation.
  "That's So-and-so over there," was a common remark of these
gentlemen among themselves, particularly among those who had not yet
reached, but hoped to do so, the dazzling height which money to dine
here lavishly represented.
  "You don't say so," would be the reply.
  "Why, yes, didn't you know that? Why, he's manager of the Grand
Opera House."
  When these things would fall upon Drouet's ears, he would straighten
himself a little more stiffly and eat with solid comfort. If he had
any vanity, this augmented it, and if he had any ambition, this
stirred it. He would be able to flash a roll of greenbacks too some
day. As it was, he could eat where they did.
  His preference for Fitzgerald and Moy's Adams Street place was
another yard off the same cloth. This was really a gorgeous saloon
from a Chicago standpoint. Like Rector's, it was also ornamented
with a blaze of incandescent lights, held in handsome chandeliers. The
floors were of brightly coloured tiles, the walls a composition of
rich, dark, polished wood, which reflected the light, and coloured
stucco-work, which gave the place a very sumptuous appearance. The
long bar was a blaze of lights, polished wood-work, coloured and cut
glassware, and many fancy bottles. It was a truly swell saloon, with
rich screens, fancy wines, and a line of bar goods unsurpassed in
the country.
  At Rector's, Drouet had met Mr. G. W. Hurstwood, manager of
Fitzgerald and Moy's. He had been pointed out as a very successful and
well-known man about town. Hurstwood looked the part, for, besides
being slightly under forty, he had a good, stout constitution, an
active manner, and a solid, substantial air, which was composed in
part of his fine clothes, his clean linen, his jewels, and, above all,
his own sense of his importance. Drouet immediately conceived a notion
of him as being some one worth knowing, and was glad not only to
meet him, but to visit the Adams Street bar thereafter whenever he
wanted a drink or a cigar.
  Hurstwood was an interesting character after his kind. He was shrewd
and clever in many little things, and capable of creating a good
impression. His managerial position was fairly important- a kind of
stewardship which was imposing, but lacked financial control. He had
risen by perseverance and industry, through long years of service,
from the position of barkeeper in a commonplace saloon to his
present altitude. He had a little office in the place, set off in
polished cherry and grill-work, where he kept, in a roll-top desk, the
rather simple accounts of the place- supplies ordered and needed.
The chief executive and financial functions devolved 'upon the owners-
Messrs. Fitzgerald and Moy- and upon a cashier who looked after the
money taken in.
  For the most part he lounged about, dressed in excellent tailored
suits of imported goods, a solitaire ring, a fine blue diamond in
his tie, a striking vest of some new pattern, and a watch-chain of
solid gold, which held a charm of rich design, and a watch of the
latest make and engraving. He knew by name, and could greet personally
with a "Well, old fellow," hundreds of actors, merchants, politicians,
and the general run of successful characters about town, and it was
part of his success to do so. He had a finely graduated scale of
informality and friendship, which improved from the "How do you do?"
addressed to the fifteen-dollar-a-week clerks and office attaches,
who, by long frequenting of the place, became aware of his position,
to the "Why, old man, how are you?" which he addressed to those
noted or rich individuals who knew him and were inclined to be
friendly. There was a class, however, too rich, too famous, or too
successful, with whom he could not attempt any familiarity of address,
and with these he was professionally tactful, assuming a grave and
dignified attitude, paying them the deference which would win their
good feeling without in the least compromising his own bearing and
opinions. There were, in the last place, a few good followers, neither
rich nor poor, famous, nor yet remarkably successful, with whom he was
friendly on the score of good-fellowship. These were the kind of men
with whom he would converse longest and most seriously. He loved to go
out and have a good time once in a while- to go to the races, the
theatres, the sporting entertainments at some of the clubs. He kept
a horse and neat trap, had his wife and two children, who were well
established in a neat house on the North Side near Lincoln Park, and
was altogether a very acceptable individual of our great American
upper class- the first grade below the luxuriously rich.
  Hurstwood liked Drouet. The latter's genial nature and dressy
appearance pleased him. He knew that Drouet was only a travelling
salesman- and not one of many years at that- but the firm of Bartlett,
Caryoe & Company was a large and prosperous house, and Drouet stood
well. Hurstwood knew Caryoe quite well, having drunk a glass now and
then with him, in company with several others, when the conversation
was general. Drouet had what was a help in his business, a moderate
sense of humour, and could tell a good story when the occasion
required. He could talk races with Hurstwood, tell interesting
incidents concerning himself and his experiences with women, and
report the state of trade in the cities which he visited, and so
managed to make himself almost invariably agreeable. To-night he was
particularly so, since his report to the company had been favourably
commented upon, his new samples had been satisfactorily selected,
and his trip marked out for the next six weeks.
  "Why, hello, Charlie, old man," said Hurstwood, as Drouet came in
that evening about eight o'clock. "How goes it?" The room was crowded.
  Drouet shook hands, beaming good nature, and they strolled towards
the bar.
  "Oh, all right."
  "I haven't seen you in six weeks. When did you get in?"
  "Friday," said Drouet. "Had a fine trip."
  "Glad of it," said Hurstwood, his black eyes lit with a warmth which
half displaced the cold make-believe that usually dwelt in them. "What
are you going to take?" he added, as the barkeeper, in snowy jacket
and tie, leaned toward them from behind the bar. "Old Pepper," said
Drouet.
  "A little of the same for me," put in Hurstwood.
  "How long are you in town this time?" inquired Hurstwood.
  "Only until Wednesday. I'm going up to St. Paul."
  "George Evans was in here Saturday and said he saw you in
Milwaukee last week."
  "Yes, I saw George," returned Drouet. "Great old boy, isn't he? We
had quite a time there together."
  The barkeeper was setting out the glasses and bottle before them,
and they now poured out the draught as they talked, Drouet filling his
to within a third of full, as was considered proper, and Hurstwood
taking the barest suggestion of whiskey and modifying it with seltzer.
  "What's become of Caryoe?" remarked Hurstwood. "I haven't seen him
around here in two weeks."
  "Laid up, they say," exclaimed Drouet. "Say, he's a gouty old boy!"
  "Made a lot of money in his time, though, hasn't he?"
  "Yes, wads of it," returned Drouet. "He won't live much longer.
Barely comes down to the office now."
  "Just one boy, hasn't he?" asked Hurstwood.
  "Yes, and a swift-pacer," laughed Drouet.
  "I guess he can't hurt the business very much, though, with the
other members all there."
  "No, he can't injure that any, I guess."
  Hurstwood was standing, his coat open, his thumbs in his pockets,
the light on his jewels and rings relieving them with agreeable
distinctness. He was the picture of fastidious comfort.
  To one not inclined to drink, and gifted with a more serious turn of
mind, such a bubbling, chattering, glittering chamber must ever seem
an anomaly, a strange commentary on nature and life. Here come the
moths, in endless procession, to bask in the light of the flame.
Such conversation as one may hear would not warrant a commendation
of the scene upon intellectual grounds. It seems plain that schemers
would choose more sequestered quarters to arrange their plans, that
politicians would not gather here in company to discuss anything
save formalities, where the sharp-eared may hear, and it would
scarcely be justified on the score of thirst, (or the majority of
those who frequent these more gorgeous places have no craving for
liquor. Nevertheless, the fact that here men gather, here chatter,
here love to pass and rub elbows, must be explained upon some grounds.
It must be that a strange bundle of passions and vague desires give
rise to such a curious social institution or it would not be.
  Drouet, for one, was lured as much by his longing for pleasure as by
his desire to shine among his betters. The many friends he met here
dropped in because they craved, without, perhaps, consciously
analysing it, the company, the glow, the atmosphere which they
found. One might take it, after all, as an augur of the better
social order, for the things which they satisfied here, though sensory
were not evil. No evil could come out of the contemplation of an
expensively decorated chamber. The worst effect of such a thing
would be, perhaps, to stir up in the material-minded an ambition to
arrange their lives upon a similarly splendid basis. In the last
analysis, that would scarcely be called the fault of the
decorations, but rather of the innate trend of the mind. That such a
scene might stir the less expensively dressed to emulate the more
expensively dressed could scarcely be laid at the door of anything
save the false ambition of the minds of those so affected. Remove
the element so thoroughly and solely complained of- liquor- and
there would not be one to gainsay the qualities of beauty and
enthusiasm which would remain. The pleased eye with which our modern
restaurants of fashion are looked upon is proof of this assertion.
  Yet, here is the fact of the lighted chamber, the dressy, greedy
company, the small, self-interested palaver, the disorganized,
aimless, wandering mental action which it represents- the love of
light and show and finery which, to one outside, under the serene
light of the eternal stars, must seem a strange and shiny thing. Under
the stars and sweeping night winds, what a lamp-flower it must
bloom; a strange, glittering night-flower, odour-yielding,
insect-drawing, insect-infested rose of pleasure.
  "See that fellow coming in there?" said Hurstwood, glancing at a
gentleman just entering, arrayed in a high hat and Prince Albert coat,
his fat cheeks puffed and red as with good eating.
  "No, where?" said Drouet.
  "There," said Hurstwood, indicating the direction by a cast of his
eye, "the man with the silk hat."
  "Oh, yes," said Drouet, now affecting not to see. "Who is he?"
  "That's Jules Wallace, the spiritualist."
  Drouet followed him with his eyes, much interested.
  "Doesn't look much like a man who sees spirits, does he?" said
Drouet.
  "Oh, I don't know," returned Hurstwood. "He's got the money, all
right," and a little twinkle passed over his eyes.
  "I don't go much on those things, do you?" asked Drouet.
  "Well, you never can tell," said Hurstwood. "There may be
something to it. I wouldn't bother about it myself, though. By the
way," he added, "are you going anywhere to-night?"
  "'The Hole in the Ground,'" said Drouet, mentioning the popular
farce of the time.
  "Well, you'd better be going. It's half after eight already," and he
drew out his watch.
  The crowd was already thinning out considerably- some bound for
the theatres, some to their clubs, and some to that most fascinating
of all the pleasures- for the type of man there represented, at least-
the ladies.
  "Yes, I will," said Drouet.
  "Come around after the show. I have something I want to show you,"
said Hurstwood.
  "Sure," said Drouet, elated.
  "You haven't anything on hand for the night, have you?" added
Hurstwood.
  "Not a thing."
  "Well, come round, then."
  "I struck a little peach coming in on the train Friday," remarked
Drouet, by way of parting. "By George, that's so, I must go and call
on her before I go away."
  "Oh, never mind her," Hurstwood remarked.
  "Say, she was a little dandy, I tell you," went on Drouet
confidentially, and trying to impress his friend.
  "Twelve o'clock," said Hurstwood.
  "That's right," said Drouet, going out.
  Thus was Carrie's name bandied about in the most frivolous and gay
of places, and that also when the little toiler was bemoaning her
narrow lot, which was almost inseparable from the early stages of
this, her unfolding fate.
                        Chapter VI.
        THE MACHINE AND THE MAIDEN: A KNIGHT OF TODAY

  At the flat that evening Carrie felt a new phase of its
atmosphere. The fact that it was unchanged, while her feelings were
different, increased her knowledge of its character. Minnie, after the
good spirits Carrie manifested at first, expected a fair report.
Hanson supposed that Carrie would be satisfied.
  "Well," he said, as he came in from the hall in his working clothes,
and looked at Carrie through the dining-room door, "how did you make
out?"
  "Oh," said Carrie, "it's pretty hard. I don't like it."
  There was an air about her which showed plainer than any words
that she was both weary and disappointed.
  "What sort of work is it?" he asked, lingering a moment as he turned
upon his heel to go into the bathroom.
  "Running a machine," answered Carrie.
  It was very evident that it did not concern him much, save from
the side of the flat's success. He was irritated a shade because it
could not have come about in the throw of fortune for Carrie to be
pleased.
  Minnie worked with less elation than she had just before Carrie
arrived. The sizzle of the meat frying did not sound quite so pleasing
now that Carrie had reported her discontent. To Carrie, the one relief
of the whole day would have been a jolly home, a sympathetic
reception, a bright supper table, and some one to say: "Oh, well,
stand it a little while. You will get something better," but now
this was ashes. She began to see that they looked upon her complaint
as unwarranted, and that she was supposed to work on and say
nothing. She knew that she was to pay four dollars for her board and
room, and now she felt that it would be an exceedingly gloomy round,
living with these people.
  Minnie was no companion for her sister- she was too old. Her
thoughts were staid and solemnly adapted to a condition. If Hanson had
any pleasant thoughts or happy feelings he concealed them. He seemed
to do all his mental operations without the aid of physical
expression. He was as still as a deserted chamber. Carrie, on the
other hand, had the blood of youth and some imagination. Her day of
love and the mysteries of courtship were still ahead. She could
think of things she would like to do, of clothes she would like to
wear, and of places she would like to visit. These were the things
upon which her mind ran, and it was like meeting with opposition at
every turn to find no one here to call forth or respond to her
feelings.
  She had forgotten, in considering and explaining the result of her
day, that Drouet might come. Now, when she saw how unreceptive these
two people were, she hoped he would not. She did not know exactly what
she would do or how she would explain to Drouet, if he came. After
supper she changed her clothes. When she was trimly dressed she was
rather a sweet little being, with large eyes and a sad mouth. Her face
expressed the mingled expectancy, dissatisfaction and depression she
felt. She wandered about after the dishes were put away, talked a
little with Minnie, and then decided to go down and stand in the
door at the foot of the stairs. If Drouet came, she could meet him
there. Her face took on the semblance of a look of happiness as she
put on her hat to go below.
  "Carrie doesn't seem to like her place very well," said Minnie to
her husband when the latter came out, paper in hand, to sit in the
dining-room a few minutes.
  "She ought to keep it for a time, anyhow," said Hanson. "Has she
gone downstairs?"
  "Yes," said Minnie.
  "I'd tell her to keep it if I were you. She might be here weeks
without getting another one."
  Minnie said she would, and Hanson read his paper.
  "If I were you," he said a little later, "I wouldn't let her stand
in the door down there. It don't look good."
  "I'll tell her," said Minnie.
  The life of the streets continued for a long time to interest
Carrie. She never wearied of wondering where the people in the cars
were going or what their enjoyments were. Her imagination trod a
very narrow round, always winding up at points which concerned
money, looks, clothes, or enjoyment. She would have a far-off
thought of Columbia City now and then, or an irritating rush of
feeling concerning her experiences of the present day, but, on the
whole, the little world about her enlisted her whole attention.
  The first floor of the building, of which Hanson's flat was the
third, was occupied by a bakery, and to this, while she was standing
there, Hanson came down to buy a loaf of bread. She was not aware of
his presence until he was quite near her.
  "I'm after bread," was all he said as he passed.
  The contagion of thought here demonstrated itself. While Hanson
really came for bread, the thought dwelt with him that now he would
see what Carrie was doing. No sooner did he draw near her with that in
mind than she felt it. Of course, she had no understanding of what put
it into her head, but, nevertheless, it aroused in her the first shade
of real antipathy to him. She knew now that she did not like him. He
was suspicious.
  A thought will colour a world for us. The flow of Carrie's
meditations had been disturbed, and Hanson had not long gone
upstairs before she followed. She had realised with the lapse of the
quarter hours that Drouet was not coming, and somehow she felt a
little resentful, a little as if she had been forsaken- was not good
enough. She went upstairs, where everything was silent. Minnie was
sewing by a lamp at the table. Hanson had already turned in for the
night. In her weariness and disappointment Carrie did no more than
announce that she was going to bed.
  "Yes you'd better," returned Minnie. "You've got to get up early,
you know."
  The morning was no better. Hanson was just going out the door as
Carrie came from her room. Minnie tried to talk with her during
breakfast, but there was not much of interest which they could
mutually discuss. As on the previous morning, Carrie walked down town,
for she began to realise now that her four-fifty would not even
allow her car fare after she paid her board. This seemed a miserable
arrangement. But the morning light swept away the first misgivings
of the day, as morning light is ever wont to do.
  At the shoe factory she put in a long day, scarcely so wearisome
as the preceding, but considerably less novel. The head foreman, on
his round, stopped by her machine.
  "Where did you come from?" he inquired.
  "Mr. Brown hired me," she replied.
  "Oh, he did, eh!" and then, "See that you keep things going."
  The machine girls impressed her even less favourably. They seemed
satisfied with their lot, and were in a sense "common." Carrie had
more imagination than they. She was not used to slang. Her instinct in
the matter of dress was naturally better. She disliked to listen to
the girl next to her, who was rather hardened by experience.
  "I'm going to quit this," she heard her remark to her neighbour.
"What with the stipend and being up late, it's too much for me
health."
  They were free with the fellows, young and old, about the place, and
exchanged banter in rude phrases, which at first shocked her. She
saw that she was taken to be of the same sort and addressed
accordingly.
  "Hello," remarked one of the stout-wristed sole-workers to her at
noon. "You're a daisy." He really expected to hear the common "Aw!
go chase yourself!" in return, and was sufficiently abashed, by
Carrie's silently moving away, to retreat, awkwardly grinning.
  That night at the flat she was even more lonely- the dull
situation was becoming harder to endure. She could see that the
Hansons seldom or never had any company. Standing at the street door
looking out, she ventured to walk out a little way. Her easy gait
and idle manner attracted attention of an offensive but common sort.
She was slightly taken back at the overtures of a well-dressed man
of thirty, who in passing looked at her, reduced his pace, turned
back, and said:
  "Out for a little stroll, are you, this evening?"
  Carrie looked at him in amazement, and then summoned sufficient
thought to reply: "Why, I don't know you," backing away as she did so.
  "Oh, that don't matter," said the other affably.
  She bandied no more words with him, but hurried away, reaching her
own door quite out of breath. There was something in the man's look
which frightened her.
  During the remainder of the week it was very much the same. One or
two nights she found herself too tired to walk home and expended car
fare. She was not very strong, and sitting all day affected her
back. She went to bed one night before Hanson.
  Transplantation is not always successful in the matter of flowers or
maidens. It requires sometimes a richer soil, a better atmosphere to
continue even a natural growth. It would have been better if her
acclimatization had been more gradual- less rigid. She would have done
better if she had not secured a position so quickly, and had seen more
of the city which she constantly troubled to know about.
  On the first morning it rained she found that she had no umbrella.
Minnie loaned her one of hers, which was worn and faded. There was the
kind of vanity in Carrie that troubled at this. She went to one of the
great department stores and bought herself one, using a dollar and a
quarter of her small store to pay for it.
  "What did you do that for, Carrie?" asked Minnie when she saw it.
  "Oh, I need one," said Carrie.
  "You foolish girl."
  Carrie resented this, though she did not reply. She was not going to
be a common shop-girl, she thought; they need not think it, either.
  On the first Saturday night Carrie paid her board, four dollars.
Minnie had a quaver of conscience as she took it, but did not know how
to explain to Hanson if she took less. That worthy gave up just four
dollars less toward the household expenses with a smile of
satisfaction. He contemplated increasing his Building and Loan
payments. As for Carrie, she studied over the problem of finding
clothes and amusement on fifty cents a week, She brooded over this
until she was in a state of mental rebellion.
  "I'm going up the street for a walk," she said after supper.
  "Not alone are you?" asked Hanson.
  "Yes," returned Carrie.
  "I wouldn't," said Minnie.
  "I want to see something," said Carrie, and by the tone she put into
the last word they realised for the first time she was not pleased
with them.
  "What's the matter with her?" asked Hanson, when she went into the
front room to get her hat.
  "I don't know," said Minnie.
  "Well, she ought to know better than to want to go out alone."
  Carrie did not go very far, after all. She returned and stood in the
door. The next day they went out to Garfield Park, but it did not
please her. She did not look well enough. In the shop next day she
heard the highly coloured reports which girls give of their trivial
amusements. They had been happy. On several days it rained and she
used up car fare. One night she got thoroughly soaked, going to
catch the car at Van Buren Street. All that evening she sat alone in
the front room looking out upon the street, where the lights were
reflected on the wet pavements, thinking. She had imagination enough
to be moody.
  On Saturday she paid another four dollars and pocketed her fifty
cents in despair. The speaking acquaintanceship which she formed
with some of the girls at the shop discovered to her the fact that
they had more of their earnings to use for themselves than she did.
They had young men of the kind whom she, since her experience with
Drouet, felt above, who took them about. She came to thoroughly
dislike the light-headed young fellows of the shop. Not one of them
had a show of refinement. She saw only their workday side.
  There came a day when the first premonitory blast of winter swept
over the city. It scudded the fleecy clouds in the heavens, trailed
long, thin streamers of smoke from the tall stacks, and raced about
the streets and corners in sharp and sudden puffs. Carrie now felt the
problem of winter clothes. What was she to do? She had no winter
jacket, no hat, no shoes. It was difficult to speak to Minnie about
this, but at last she summoned the courage.
  "I don't know what I'm going to do about clothes," she said one
evening when they were together. "I need a hat."
  Minnie looked serious.
  "Why don't you keep part of your money and buy yourself one?" she
suggested, worried over the situation which the withholding of
Carrie's money would create.
  "I'd like to for a week or so, if you don't mind," ventured Carrie.
  "Could you pay two dollars?" asked Minnie.
  Carrie readily acquiesced, glad to escape the trying situation,
and liberal now that she saw a way out. She was elated and began
figuring at once. She needed a hat first of all. How Minnie
explained to Hanson she never knew. He said nothing at all, but
there were thoughts in the air which left disagreeable impressions.
  The new arrangement might have worked if sickness had not
intervened. It blew up cold after a rain one afternoon when Carrie was
still without a jacket. She came out of the warm shop at six and
shivered as the wind struck her. In the morning she was sneezing,
and going down town made it worse. That day her bones ached and she
felt light-headed. Towards evening she felt very ill, and when she
reached home was not hungry. Minnie noticed her drooping actions and
asked her about herself.
  "I don't know," said Carrie. "I feel real bad."
  She hung about the stove, suffered a chattering chill, and went to
bed sick. The next morning she was thoroughly feverish.
  Minnie was truly distressed at this, but maintained a kindly
demeanour. Hanson said perhaps she had better go back home for a
while. When she got up after three days, it was taken for granted that
her position was lost. The winter was near at hand, she had no clothes
and now she was out of work.
  "I don't know," said Carrie; "I'll go down Monday and see if I can't
get something."
  If anything, her efforts were more poorly rewarded on this trial
than the last. Her clothes were nothing suitable for fall wearing. Her
last money she had spent for a hat. For three days she wandered about,
utterly dispirited. The attitude of the flat was fast becoming
unbearable. She hated to think of going back there each evening.
Hanson was so cold. She knew it could not last much longer. Shortly
she would have to give up and go home.
  On the fourth day she was down town all day, having borrowed ten
cents for lunch from Minnie. She had applied in the cheapest kind of
places without success. She even answered for a waitress in a small
restaurant where she saw a card in the window, but they wanted an
experienced girl. She moved through the thick throng of strangers,
utterly subdued in spirit. Suddenly a hand pulled her arm and turned
her about.
  "Well, well!" said a voice. In the first glance she beheld Drouet.
He was not only rosy-cheeked, but radiant. He was the essence of
sunshine and good-humour. "Why, how are you, Carrie?" he said. "You're
a daisy. Where have you been?"
  Carrie smiled under his irresistible flood of geniality.
  "I've been out home," she said.
  "Well," he said, "I saw you across the street there. I thought it
was you. I was just coming out to your place. How are you, anyhow?"
  "I'm all right," said Carrie, smiling.
  Drouet looked her over and saw something different.
  "Well," he said, "I want to talk to you. You're not going anywhere
in particular, are you?"
  "Not just now," said Carrie.
  "Let's go up here and have something to eat. George! but I'm glad to
see you again."
  She felt so relieved in his radiant presence, so much looked after
and cared for, that she assented gladly, though with the slightest air
of holding back.
  "Well," he said as he took her arm- and there was an exuberance of
good-fellowship in the word which fairly warmed the cockles of her
heart.
  They went through Monroe Street to the old Windsor dining-room,
which was then a large, comfortable place, with an excellent cuisine
and substantial service. Drouet selected a table close by the
window, where the busy rout of the street could be seen. He loved
the changing panorama of the street- to see and be seen as he dined.
  "Now," he said, getting Carrie and himself comfortably settled, what
will you have?"
  Carrie looked over the large bill of fare which the waiter handed
her without really considering it. She was very hungry, and the things
she saw there awakened her desires, but the high prices held her
attention. "Half broiled spring chicken- seventy-five. Sirloin steak
with mushrooms- one twenty-five." She had dimly heard of these things,
but it seemed strange to be called to order from the list.
  "I'll fix this," exclaimed Drouet. "Sst! waiter."
  That officer of the board, a full-chested, round-faced negro,
approached, and inclined his ear.
  "Sirloin with mushrooms," said Drouet. "Stuffed tomatoes."
  "Yassah," assented the negro, nodding his head.
  "Hashed brown potatoes."
  "Yassah."
  "Asparagus."
  "Yassah."
  "And a pot of coffee."
  Drouet turned to Carrie. "I haven't had a thing since breakfast.
Just got in from Rock Island. I was going off to dine when I saw you."
  Carried smiled and smiled.
  "What have you been doing?" he went on. "Tell me all about yourself.
How is your sister?"
  "She's well," returned Carrie, answering the last query.
  He looked at her hard.
  "Say," he said, "you haven't been sick, have you?"
  Carrie nodded.
  "Well, now, that's a blooming shame, isn't it? You don't look very
well. I thought you looked a little pale. What have you been doing?"
  "Working," said Carrie.
  "You don't say so! At what?"
  She told him.
  "Rhodes, Morgenthau and Scott- why, I know that house. Over here
on Fifth Avenue, isn't it? They're a close-fisted concern. What made
you go there?"
  "I couldn't get anything else," said Carrie frankly.
  "Well, that's an outrage," said Drouet. "You oughtn't to be
working for those people. Have the factory right back of the store,
don't they?"
  "Yes," said Carrie.
  "That isn't a good house," said Drouet. "You don't want to work at
anything like that, anyhow."
  He chattered on at a great rate, asking questions, explaining things
about himself, telling her what a good restaurant it was, until the
waiter returned with an immense tray, bearing the hot savoury dishes
which had been ordered. Drouet fairly shone in the matter of
serving. He appeared to great advantage behind the white napery and
silver platters of the table and displaying his arms with a knife
and fork. As he cut the meat his rings almost spoke. His new suit
creaked as he stretched to reach the plates, break the bread, and pour
the coffee. He helped Carrie to a rousing plateful and contributed the
warmth of his spirit to her body until she was a new girl. He was a
splendid fellow in the true popular understanding of the term, and
captivated Carrie completely.
  That little soldier of fortune took her good turn in an easy way.
She felt a little out of place, but the great room soothed her and the
view of the well-dressed throng outside seemed a splendid thing. Ah,
what was it not to have money! What a thing it was to be able to
come in here and dine! Drouet must be fortunate. He rode on trains,
dressed in such nice clothes, was so strong, and ate in these fine
places. He seemed quite a figure of a man, and she wondered at his
friendship and regard for her.
  "So you lost your place because you got sick, eh?" he said.
  "What are you going to do now?"
  "Look around," she said, a thought of the need that hung outside
this fine restaurant like a hungry dog at her heels passing into her
eyes.
  "Oh, no," said Drouet, "that won't do. How long have you been
looking?"
  "Four days," she answered.
  "Think of that!" he said, addressing some problematical
individual. "You oughtn't to be doing anything like that. These
girls," and he waved an inclusion of all shop and factory girls,
"don't get anything. Why, you can't live on it, can you?"
  He was a brotherly sort of creature in his demeanour. When he had
scouted the idea of that kind of toil, he took another tack. Carrie
was really very pretty. Even then, in her commonplace garb, her figure
was evidently not bad, and her eyes were large and gentle. Drouet
looked at her and his thoughts reached home. She felt his
admiration. It was powerfully backed by his liberality and
good-humour. She felt that she liked him- that she could continue to
like him ever so much. There was something even richer than that,
running as a hidden strain, in her mind. Every little while her eyes
would meet his, and by that means the interchanging current of feeling
would be fully connected.
  "Why don't you stay down town and go to the theatre with me?" he
said, hitching his chair closer. The table was not very wide.
  "Oh, I can't," she said.
  "What are you going to do to-night?"
  "Nothing," she answered, a little drearily.
  "You don't like out there where you are, do you?"
  "Oh, I don't know."
  "What are you going to do if you don't get work?"
  "Go back home, I guess."
  There was the least quaver in her voice as she said this. Somehow,
the influence he was exerting was powerful. They came to an
understanding of each other without words- he of her situation, she of
the fact that he realised it.
  "No," he said, "you can't make it!" genuine sympathy filling his
mind for the time. "Let me help you. You take some of my money."
  "Oh, no!" she said, leaning back.
  "What are you going to do?" he said.
  She sat meditating, merely shaking her head.
  He looked at her quite tenderly for his kind. There were some
loose bills in his vest pocket- greenbacks. They were soft and
noiseless, and he got his fingers about them and crumpled them up in
his hand.
  "Come on," he said, "I'll see you through all right. Get yourself
some clothes."
  It was the first reference he had made to that subject, and now
she realised how bad off she was. In his crude way he had struck the
key-note. Her lips trembled a little.
  She had her hand out on the table before her. They were quite
alone in their corner, and he put his larger, warmer hand over it.
  "Aw, come, Carrie," he said, "what can you do alone? Let me help
you."
  He pressed her hand gently and she tried to withdraw it. At this
he held it fast, and she no longer protested. Then he slipped the
greenbacks he had into her palm, and when she began to protest, he
whispered:
  "I'll loan it to you- that's all right. I'll loan it to you."
  He made her take it. She felt bound to him by a strange tie of
affection now. They went out, and he walked with her far out south
toward Polk Street, talking.
  "You don't want to live with those people?" he said in one place,
abstractedly. Carrie heard it, but it made only a slight impression.
  "Come down and meet me to-morrow," he said, "and we'll go to the
matinee. Will you?"
  Carrie protested a while, but acquiesced.
  "You're not doing anything. Get yourself a nice pair of shoes and
a jacket."
  She scarcely gave a thought to the complication which would
trouble her when he was gone. In his presence, she was of his own
hopeful, easy-way-out mood.
  "Don't you bother about those people out there," he said at parting.
"I'll help you."
  Carrie left him, feeling as though a great arm had slipped out
before her to draw off trouble. The money she had accepted was two
soft, green, handsome ten-dollar bills.
                       Chapter VII.
      THE LURE OF THE MATERIAL: BEAUTY SPEAKS FOR ITSELF

  The true meaning of money yet remains to be popularly explained
and comprehended. When each individual realises for himself that
this thing primarily stands for and should only be accepted as a moral
due- that it should be paid out as honestly stored energy, and not
as a usurped privilege- many of our social, religious, and political
troubles will have permanently passed. As for Carrie, her
understanding of the moral significance of money was the popular
understanding, nothing more. The old definition: "Money: something
everybody else has and I must get," would have expressed her
understanding of it thoroughly. Some of it she now held in her hand-
two soft, green ten-dollar bills- and she felt that she was
immensely better off for the having of them. It was something that was
power in itself. One of her order of mind would have been content to
be cast away upon a desert island with a bundle of money, and only the
long strain of starvation would have taught her that in some cases
it could have no value. Even then she would have had no conception
of the relative value of the thing; her one thought would,
undoubtedly, have concerned the pity of having so much power and the
inability to use it.
  The poor girl thrilled as she walked away from Drouet. She felt
ashamed in part because she had been weak enough to take it, but her
need was so dire, she was still glad. Now she would have a nice new
jacket! Now she would buy a nice pair of pretty button shoes. She
would get stockings, too, and a skirt, and, and- until already, as
in the matter of her prospective salary, she had got beyond, in her
desires, twice the purchasing power of her bills.
  She conceived a true estimate of Drouet. To her, and indeed to all
the world, he was a nice, good-hearted man. There was nothing evil
in the fellow. He gave her the money out of a good heart- out of a
realisation of her want. He would not have given the same amount to
a poor young man, but we must not forget that a poor young man could
not, in the nature of things, have appealed to him like a poor young
girl. Femininity affected his feelings. He was the creature of an
inborn desire. Yet no beggar could have caught his eye and said, "My
God, mister, I'm starving," but he would gladly have handed out what
was considered the proper portion to give beggars and thought no
more about it. There would have been no speculation, no
philosophising. He had no mental process in him worthy the dignity
of either of those terms. In his good clothes and fine health, he
was a merry, unthinking moth of the lamp. Deprived of his position,
and struck by a few of the involved and baffling forces which
sometimes play upon man he would have been as helpless as Carrie- as
helpless, as non-understanding, as pitiable, if you will, as she.
  Now, in regard to his pursuit of women, he meant them no harm,
because he did not conceive of the relation which he hoped to hold
with them as being harmful. He loved to make advances to women, to
have them succumb to his charms, not because he was a cold-blooded,
dark, scheming villain, but because his inborn desire urged him to
that as a chief delight. He was vain, he was boastful, he was as
deluded by fine clothes as any silly-headed girl. A truly deep-dyed
villain could have hornswaggled him as readily as he could have
flattered a pretty shop-girl. His fine success as a salesman lay in
his geniality and the thoroughly reputable standing of his house. He
bobbed about among men, a veritable bundle of enthusiasm- no power
worthy the name of intellect, no thoughts worthy the adjective
noble, no feelings long continued in one strain. A Madame Sappho would
have called him a pig; a Shakespeare would have said "my merry child;"
old, drinking Caryoe thought him a clever, successful business man. In
short, he was as good as his intellect conceived.
  The best proof that there was something open and commendable about
the man was the fact that Carrie took the money. No deep, sinister
soul with ulterior motives could have given her fifteen cents under
the guise of friendship. The unintellectual are not so helpless.
Nature has taught the beasts of the field to fly when some
unheralded danger threatens. She has put into the small, unwise head
of the chipmunk the untutored fear of poisons. "He keepeth His
creatures whole," was not, written of beasts alone. Carrie was unwise,
and, therefore, like the sheep in its unwisdom, strong in feeling. The
instinct of self-protection, strong in all such natures, was roused
but feebly, if at all, by the overtures of Drouet.
  When Carrie had gone, he felicitated himself upon her good
opinion. By George, it was a shame young girls had to be knocked
around like that. Cold weather coming on and no clothes. Tough. He
would go around to Fitzgerald and Moy's and get a cigar. It made him
feel light of foot as he thought about her.
  Carrie reached home in high good spirits, which she could scarcely
conceal. The possession of the money involved a number of points which
perplexed her seriously. How should she buy any clothes when Minnie
knew that she had no money? She had no sooner entered the flat than
this point was settled for her. It could not be done. She could
think of no way of explaining.
  "How did you come out?" asked Minnie, referring to the day.
  Carrie had none of the small deception which could feel one thing
and say something directly opposed. She would prevaricate, but it
would be in the line of her feelings at least. So; instead of
complaining when she felt so good, she said:
  "I have the promise of something."
  "Where?"
  "At the Boston Store."
  "Is it sure promised?" questioned Minnie.
  "Well, I'm to find out to-morrow," returned Carrie, disliking to
draw out a lie any longer than was necessary.
  Minnie felt the atmosphere of good feeling which Carrie brought with
her. She felt now was the time to express to Carrie the state of
Hanson's feeling about her entire Chicago venture.
  "If you shouldn't get it-" she paused, troubled for an easy way.
  "If I don't get something pretty soon, I think I'll go home."
  Minnie saw her chance.
  "Sven thinks it might be best for the winter, anyhow."
  The situation flashed on Carrie at once. They were unwilling to keep
her any longer, out of work. She did not blame Minnie, she did not
blame Hanson very much. Now, as she sat there digesting the remark,
she was glad she had Drouet's money.
  "Yes," she said after a few moments, "I thought of doing that."
  She did not explain that the thought, however, had aroused all the
antagonism of her nature. Columbia City, what was there for her? She
knew its dull, little round by heart. Here was the great, mysterious
city which was still a magnet for her. What she had seen only
suggested its possibilities. Now to turn back on it and live the
little old life out there- she almost exclaimed against the thought.
  She had reached home early and went in the front room to think. What
could she do? She could not buy new shoes and wear them here. She
would need to save part of the twenty to pay her fare home. She did
not want to borrow of Minnie for that. And yet, how could she
explain where she even got that money? If she could only get enough to
let her out easy.
  She went over the tangle again and again. Here, in the morning,
Drouet would expect to see her in a new jacket, and that couldn't
be. The Hansons expected her to go home, and she wanted to get away,
and yet she did not want to go home. In the light of the way they
would look on her getting money without work, the taking of it now
seemed dreadful. She began to be ashamed. The whole situation
depressed her. It was all so clear when she was with Drouet. Now it
was all so tangled, so hopeless- much worse than it was before,
because she had the semblance of aid in her hand which she could not
use.
  Her spirits sank so that at supper Minnie felt that she must have
had another hard day. Carrie finally decided that she would give the
money back. It was wrong to take it. She would go down in the
morning and hunt for work. At noon she would meet Drouet as agreed and
tell him. At this decision her heart sank, until she was the old
Carrie of distress.
  Curiously, she could not hold the money in her hand without
feeling some relief. Even after all her depressing conclusions, she
could sweep away all thought about the matter and then the twenty
dollars seemed a wonderful and delightful thing. Ah, money, money,
money! What a thing it was to have. How plenty of it would clear
away all these troubles.
  In the morning she got up and started out a little early. Her
decision to hunt for work was moderately strong, but the money in
her pocket, after all her troubling over it, made the work question
the least shade less terrible. She walked into the wholesale district,
but as the thought of applying came with each passing concern, her
heart shrank. What a coward she was, she thought to herself. Yet she
had applied so often. It would be the same old story. She walked on
and on, and finally did go into one place, with the old result. She
came out feeling that luck was against her. It was no use.
  Without much thinking, she reached Dearborn Street. Here was the
great Fair store with its multitude of delivery wagons about, its long
window display, its crowd of shoppers. It readily changed her
thoughts, she who was so weary of them. It was here that she had
intended to come and get her new things. Now for relief from distress,
she thought she would go in and see. She would look at the jackets.
  There is nothing in this world more delightful than that middle
state in which we mentally balance at times, possessed of the means,
lured by desire, and yet deterred by conscience or want of decision.
When Carrie began wandering around the store amid the fine displays
she was in this mood. Her original experience in this same place had
given her a high opinion of its merits. Now she paused at each
individual bit of finery, where before she had hurried on. Her woman's
heart was warm with desire for them. How would she look in this, how
charming that would make her! She came upon the corset counter and
paused in rich reverie as she noted the dainty concoctions of colour
and lace there displayed. If she would only make up her mind, she
could have one of those now. She lingered in the jewelry department.
She saw the earrings, the bracelets, the pins, the chains. What
would she not have given if she could have had them all! She would
look fine too, if only she had some of these things.
  The jackets were the greatest attraction. When she entered the
store, she already had her heart fixed upon the peculiar little tan
jacket with large mother-of-pearl buttons which was all the rage
that fall. Still she delighted to convince herself that there was
nothing she would like better. She went about among the glass cases
and racks where these things were displayed, and satisfied herself
that the one she thought of was the proper one. All the time she
wavered in mind, now persuading herself that she could buy it right
away if she chose, now recalling to herself the actual condition. At
last the noon hour was dangerously near, and she had done nothing. She
must go now and return the money.
  Drouet was on the corner when she came up.
  "Hello," he said, "where is the jacket and"- looking down- "the
shoes?"
  Carrie had thought to lead up to her decision in some intelligent
way, but this swept the whole fore-schemed situation by the board.
  "I came to tell you that- that I can't take the money."
  "Oh, that's it, is it?" he returned. "Well, you come on with me.
Let's go over here to Partridge's."
  Carrie walked with him. Behold, the whole fabric of doubt and
impossibility had slipped from her mind. She could not get at the
points that were so serious, the things she was going to make plain to
him.
  "Have you had lunch yet? Of course you haven't. Let's go in here,"
and Drouet turned into one of the very nicely furnished restaurants
off State Street, in Monroe.
  "I mustn't take the money," said Carrie, after they were settled
in a cosey corner, and Drouet had ordered the lunch. "I can't wear
those things out there. They- they wouldn't know where I got them."
  "What do you want to do," he smiled, "go without them?"
  "I think I'll go home," she said, wearily.
  "Oh, come," he said, "you've been thinking it over too long. I'll
tell you what you do. You say you can't wear them out there. Why don't
you rent a furnished room and leave them in that for a week?"
  Carrie shook her head. Like all women, she was there to object and
be convinced. It was for him to brush the doubts away and clear the
path if he could.
  "Why are you going home?" he asked.
  "Oh, I can't get anything here."
  "They won't keep you?" he remarked, intuitively.
  "They can't," said Carrie.
  "I'll tell you what you do," he said. "You come with me. I'll take
care of you."
  Carrie heard this passively. The peculiar state which she was in
made it sound like the welcome breath of an open door. Drouet seemed
of her own spirit and pleasing. He was clean, handsome,
well-dressed, and sympathetic. His voice was the voice of a friend.
  "What can you do back at Columbia City?" he went on, rousing by
the words in Carrie's mind a picture of the dull world she had left.
"There isn't anything down there. Chicago's the place. You can get a
nice room here and some clothes, and then you can do something."
  Carrie looked out through the window into the busy street. There
it was, the admirable, great city, so fine when you are not poor. An
elegant coach, with a prancing pair of bays, passed by, carrying in
its upholstered depths a young lady.
  "What will you have if you go back?" asked Drouet. There was no
subtle undercurrent to the question. He imagined that she would have
nothing at all of the things he thought worth while.
  Carrie sat still, looking out. She was wondering what she could
do. They would be expecting her to go home this week.
  Drouet turned to the subject of the clothes she was going to buy.
  "Why not get yourself a nice little jacket? You've got to have it.
I'll loan you the money. You needn't worry about taking it. You can
get yourself a nice room by yourself. I won't hurt you."
  Carrie saw the drift, but could not express her thoughts. She felt
more than ever the helplessness of her case.
  "If I could only get something to do," she said.
  "Maybe you can," went on Drouet, "if you stay here. You can't if you
go away. They won't let you stay out there. Now, why not let me get
you a nice room? I won't bother you- you needn't be afraid. Then, when
you get fixed up, maybe you could get something."
  He looked at her pretty face and it vivified his mental resources.
She was a sweet little mortal to him- there was no doubt of that.
She seemed to have some power back of her actions. She was not like
the common run of store-girls. She wasn't silly.
  In reality, Carrie had more imagination than he- more taste. It
was a finer mental strain in her that made possible her depression and
loneliness. Her poor clothes were neat, and she held her head
unconsciously in a dainty way.
  "Do you think I could get something?" she asked.
  "Sure," he said, reaching over and filling her cup with tea. "I'll
help you."
  She looked at him, and he laughed reassuringly.
  "Now I'll tell you what well do. We'll go over here to Partridge's
and you pick out what you want. Then we'll look around for a room
for you. You can leave the things there. Then we'll go to the show
to-night."
  Carrie shook her head.
  "Well, you can go out to the flat then, that's all right. You
don't need to stay in the room. Just take it and leave your things
there."
  She hung in doubt about this until the dinner was over.
  "Let's go over and look at the jackets," he said.
  Together they went. In the store they found that shine and rustle of
new things which immediately laid hold of Carrie's heart. Under the
influence of a good dinner and Drouet's radiating presence, the scheme
proposed seemed feasible. She looked about and picked a jacket like
the one which she had admired at The Fair. When she got it in her hand
it seemed so much nicer. The saleswoman helped her on with it, and, by
accident, it fitted perfectly. Drouet's face lightened as he saw the
improvement. She looked quite smart.
  "That's the thing," he said.
  Carrie turned before the glass. She could not help feeling pleased
as she looked at herself. A warm glow crept into her cheeks.
  "That's the thing," said Drouet. "Now pay for it."
  "It's nine dollars," said Carrie.
  "That's all right- take it," said Drouet.
  She reached in her purse and took out one of the bills. The woman
asked if she would wear the coat and went off. In a few minutes she
was back and the purchase was closed.
  From Partridge's they went to a shoe store, where Carrie was
fitted for shoes. Drouet stood by, and when he saw how nice they
looked, said, "Wear them." Carrie shook her head, however. She was
thinking of returning to the flat. He bought her a purse for one
thing, and a pair of gloves for another, and let her buy the
stockings.
  "To-morrow," he said, "you come down here and buy yourself a skirt."
  In all of Carrie's actions there was a touch of misgiving. The
deeper she sank into the entanglement, the more she imagined that
the thing hung upon the few remaining things she had not done. Since
she had not done these, there was a way out.
  Drouet knew a place in Wabash Avenue where there were rooms. He
showed Carrie the outside of these, and said: "Now, you're my sister."
He carried the arrangement off with an easy hand when it came to the
selection, looking around, criticising, opining. "Her trunk will be
here in a day or so," he observed to the landlady, who was very
pleased.
  When they were alone, Drouet did not change in the least. He
talked in the same general way as if they were out in the street.
Carrie left her things.
  "Now," said Drouet, "why don't you move to-night?"
  "Oh, I can't," said Carrie.
  "Why not?"
  "I don't want to leave them so."
  He took that up as they walked along the avenue. It was a warm
afternoon. The sun had come out and the wind had died down. As he
talked with Carrie, he secured an accurate detail of the atmosphere of
the flat.
  "Come out of it," he said, "they won't care. I'll help you get
along."
  She listened until her misgivings vanished. He would show her
about a little and then help her get something. He really imagined
that he would. He would be out on the road and she could be working.
  "Now, I'll tell you what you do," he said, "you go out there and get
whatever you want and come away."
  She thought a long time about this. Finally she agreed. He would
come out as far as Peoria Street and wait for her. She was to meet him
at half-past eight. At half-past five she reached home, and at six her
determination was hardened.
  "So you didn't get it?" said Minnie, referring to Carrie's story
of the Boston Store.
  Carrie looked at her out of the corner of her eye. "No," she
answered.
  "I don't think you'd better try any more this fall," said Minnie.
  Carrie said nothing.
  When Hanson came home he wore the same inscrutable demeanour. He
washed in silence and went off to read his paper. At dinner Carrie
felt a little nervous. The strain of her own plans was considerable,
and the feeling that she was not welcome here was strong.
  "Didn't find anything, eh?" said Hanson.
  "No."
  He turned to his eating again, the thought that it was a burden to
have her here dwelling in his mind. She would have to go home, that
was all. Once she was away, there would be no more coming back in
the spring.
  Carrie was afraid of what she was going to do, but she was
relieved to know that this condition was ending. They would not
care. Hanson particularly would be glad when she went. He would not
care what became of her.
  After dinner she went into the bathroom, where they could not
disturb her, and wrote a little note.
  "Good-bye, Minnie," it read. "I'm not going home. I'm going to
stay in Chicago a little while and look for work. Don't worry. I'll be
all right."
  In the front room Hanson was reading his paper. As usual, she helped
Minnie clear away the dishes and straighten up. Then she said:
  "I guess I'll stand down at the door a little while." She could
scarcely prevent her voice from trembling.
  Minnie remembered Hanson's remonstrance.
  "Sven doesn't think it looks good to stand down there," she said.
  "Doesn't he?" said Carrie. "I won't do it any more after this."
  She put on her hat and fidgeted around the table in the little
bedroom, wondering where to slip the note. Finally she put it under
Minnie's hair-brush.
  When she had closed the hall-door, she paused a moment and
wondered what they would think. Some thought of the queerness of her
deed affected her. She went slowly down the stairs. She looked back up
the lighted step, and then affected to stroll up the street. When
she reached the corner she quickened her pace.
  As she was hurrying away, Hanson came back to his wife.
  "Is Carrie down at the door again?" he asked.
  "Yes," said Minnie; "she said she wasn't going to do it any more."
  He went over to the baby where it was playing on the floor and began
to poke his finger at it.
  Drouet was on the corner waiting, in good spirits.
  "Hello, Carrie," he said, as a sprightly figure of a girl drew
near him. "Got here safe, did you? Well, we'll take a car."
                       Chapter VIII.
        INTIMATIONS BY WINTER: AN AMBASSADOR SUMMONED

  Among the forces which sweep and play throughout the universe,
untutored man is but a wisp in the wind. Our civilisation is still
in a middle stage, scarcely beast, in that it is no longer wholly
guided by instinct; scarcely human, in that it is not yet wholly
guided by reason. On the tiger no responsibility rests. We see him
aligned by nature with the forces of life- he is born into their
keeping and without thought he is protected. We see man far removed
from the lairs of the jungles, his innate instincts dulled by too near
an approach to free-will, his free-will not sufficiently developed
to replace his instincts and afford him perfect guidance. He is
becoming too wise to hearken always to instincts and desires; he is
still too weak to always prevail against them. As a beast, the
forces of life aligned him with them; as a man, he has not yet
wholly learned to align himself with the forces. In this
intermediate stage he wavers- neither drawn in harmony with nature
by his instincts nor yet wisely putting himself into harmony by his
own free-will. He is even as a wisp in the wind, moved by every breath
of passion, acting now by his will and now by his instincts, erring
with one, only to retrieve by the other, falling by one, only to
rise by the other- a creature of incalculable variability. We have the
consolation of knowing that evolution is ever in action, that the
ideal is a light that cannot fail. He will not forever balance thus
between good and evil. When this jangle of free-will and instinct
shall have been adjusted, when perfect understanding has given the
former the power to replace the latter entirely, man will no longer
vary. The needle of understanding will yet point steadfast and
unwavering to the distant pole of truth.
  In Carrie- as in how many of our worldlings do they not?- instinct
and reason, desire and understanding, were at war for the mastery. She
followed whither her craving led. She was as yet more drawn than she
drew.
  When Minnie found the note next morning, after a night of mingled
wonder and anxiety, which was not exactly touched by yearning, sorrow,
or love, she exclaimed: "Well, what do you think of that?"
  "What?" said Hanson.
  "Sister Carrie has gone to live somewhere else."
  Hanson jumped out of bed with more celerity than he usually
displayed and looked at the note. The only indication of his
thoughts came in the form of a little clicking sound made by his
tongue; the sound some people make when they wish to urge on a horse.
  "Where do you suppose she's gone to?" said Minnie, thoroughly
aroused.
  "I don't know," a touch of cynicism lighting his eye. "Now she has
gone and done it."
  Minnie moved her head in a puzzled way.
  "Oh, oh," she said, "she doesn't know what she has done."
  "Well," said Hanson, after a while, sticking his hands out before
him, "what can you do?"
  Minnie's womanly nature was higher than this. She figured the
possibilities in such cases.
  "Oh," she said at last, "poor Sister Carrie!"
  At the time of this particular conversation, which occurred at 5
A.M., that little soldier of fortune was sleeping a rather troubled
sleep in her new room, alone.
  Carrie's new state was remarkable in that she saw possibilities in
it. She was no sensualist, longing to drowse sleepily in the lap of
luxury. She turned about, troubled by her daring, glad of her release,
wondering whether she would get something to do, wondering what Drouet
would do. That worthy had his future fixed for him beyond a
peradventure. He could not help what he was going to do. He could
not see clearly enough to wish to do differently. He was drawn by
his innate desire to act the old pursuing part. He would need to
delight himself with Carrie as surely as he would need to eat his
heavy breakfast. He might suffer the least rudimentary twinge of
conscience in whatever he did, and in just so far he was evil and
sinning. But whatever twinges of conscience he might have would be
rudimentary, you may be sure.
  The next day he called upon Carrie, and she saw him in her
chamber. He was the same jolly, enlivening soul.
  "Aw," he said, "what are you looking so blue about? Come on out to
breakfast. You want to get your other clothes to-day."
  Carrie looked at him with the hue of shifting thought in her large
eyes.
  "I wish I could get something to do," she said.
  "You'll get that all right," said Drouet. "What's the use worrying
right now? Get yourself fixed up. See the city. I won't hurt you."
  "I know you won't," she remarked, half truthfully.
  "Got on the new shoes, haven't you? Stick 'em out. George, they look
fine. Put on your jacket."
  Carrie obeyed.
  "Say, that fits like a T, don't it?" he remarked, feeling the set of
it at the waist and eyeing it from a few paces with real pleasure.
"What you need now is a new skirt. Let's go to breakfast."
  Carrie put on her hat.
  "Where are the gloves?" he inquired.
  "Here," she said, taking them out of the bureau drawer.
  "Now, come on," he said.
  Thus the first hour of misgiving was swept away.
  It went this way on every occasion. Drouet did not leave her much
alone. She had time for some lone wanderings, but mostly he filled her
hours with sight-seeing. At Carson, Pirie's he bought her a nice skirt
and shirt waist. With his money she purchased the little necessaries
of toilet, until at last she looked quite another maiden. The mirror
convinced her of a few things which she had long believed. She was
pretty, yes, indeed! How nice her hat set, and weren't her eyes
pretty. She caught her little red lip with her teeth and felt her
first thrill of power. Drouet was so good.
  They went to see "The Mikado" one evening, an opera which was
hilariously popular at that time. Before going, they made off for
the Windsor dining-room, which was in Dearborn Street, a
considerable distance from Carrie's room. It was blowing up cold,
and out of her window Carrie could see the western sky, still pink
with the fading light, but steely blue at the top where it met the
darkness. A long, thin cloud of pink hung in midair, shaped like
some island in a far-off sea. Somehow the swaying of some dead
branches of trees across the way brought back the picture with which
she was familiar when she looked from their front window in December
days at home.
  She paused and wrung her little hands.
  "What's the matter?" said Drouet.
  "Oh, I don't know," she said, her lip trembling.
  He sensed something, and slipped his arm over her shoulder,
patting her arm.
  "Come on," he said gently, "you're all right."
  She turned to slip on her jacket.
  "Better wear that boa about your throat to-night."
  They walked north on Wabash to Adams Street and then west. The
lights in the stores were already shining out in gushes of golden hue.
The arc lights were sputtering overhead, and high up were the
lighted windows of the tall office buildings. The chill wind whipped
in and out in gusty breaths. Homeward bound, the six o'clock throng
bumped and jostled. Light overcoats were turned up about the ears,
hats were pulled down. Little shop-girls went fluttering by in pairs
and fours, chattering, laughing. It was a spectacle of warm-blooded
humanity.
  Suddenly a pair of eyes met Carrie's in recognition. They were
looking out from a group of poorly dressed girls. Their clothes were
faded and loose-hanging, their jackets old, their general make-up
shabby.
  Carrie recognised the glance and the girl. She was one of those
who worked at the machines in the shoe factory. The latter looked, not
quite sure, and then turned her head and looked. Carrie felt as if
some great tide had rolled between them. The old dress and the old
machine came back. She actually started. Drouet didn't notice until
Carrie bumped into a pedestrian.
  "You must be thinking," he said.
  They dined and went to the theatre. That spectacle pleased Carrie
immensely. The colour and grace of it caught her eye. She had vain
imaginings about place and power, about far-off lands and
magnificent people. When it was over, the clatter of coaches and the
throng of fine ladies made her stare.
  "Wait a minute," said Drouet, holding her back in the showy foyer
where ladies and gentlemen were moving in a social crush, skirts
rustling, lace-covered heads nodding, white teeth showing through
parted lips. "Let's see."
  "Sixty-seven," the coach-caller was saying, his voice lifted in a
sort of euphonious cry. "Sixty-seven."
  "Isn't it fine?" said Carrie.
  "Great," said Drouet. He was as much affected by this show of finery
and gayety as she. He pressed her arm warmly. Once she looked up,
her even teeth glistening through her smiling lips, her eyes alight.
As they were moving out he whispered down to her, "You look lovely!"
They were right where the coach-caller was swinging open a
coach-door and ushering in two ladies.
  "You stick to me and we'll have a coach," laughed Drouet.
  Carrie scarcely heard, her head was so full of the swirl of life.
  They stopped in at a restaurant for a little after-theatre lunch.
Just a shade of a thought of the hour entered Carrie's head, but there
was no household law to govern her now. If any habits ever had time to
fix upon her, they would have operated here. Habits are peculiar
things. They will drive the really non-religious mind out of bed to
say prayers that are only a custom and not a devotion. The victim of
habit, when he has neglected the thing which it was his custom to
do, feels a little scratching in the brain, a little irritating
something which comes of being out of the rut, and imagines it to be
the prick of conscience, the still, small voice that is urging him
ever to righteousness. If the digression is unusual enough, the drag
of habit will be heavy enough to cause the unreasoning victim to
return and perform the perfunctory thing. "Now, bless me," says such a
mind, "I have done my duty," when, as a matter of fact, it has
merely done its old, unbreakable trick once again.
  Carrie had no excellent home principles fixed upon her. If she
had, she would have been more consciously distressed. Now the lunch
went off with considerable warmth. Under the influence of the varied
occurrences, the fine, invisible passion which was emanating from
Drouet, the food, the still unusual luxury, she relaxed and heard with
open ears. She was again the victim of the city's hypnotic influence.
  "Well," said Drouet at last, "we had better be going."
  They had been dawdling over the dishes, and their eyes had
frequently met. Carrie could not help but feel the vibration of
force which followed, which, indeed, was his gaze. He had a way of
touching her hand in explanation, as if to impress a fact upon her. He
touched it now as he spoke of going.
  They arose and went out into the street. The downtown section was
now bare, save for a few whistling strollers, a few owl cars, a few
open resorts whose windows were still bright. Out Wabash Avenue they
strolled, Drouet still pouring forth his volume of small
information. He had Carrie's arm in his, and held it closely as he
explained. Once in a while, after some witticism, he would look
down, and his eyes would meet hers. At last they came to the steps,
and Carrie stood up on the first one, her head now coming even with
his own. He took her hand and held it genially. He looked steadily
at her as she glanced about, warmly musing.
  At about that hour, Minnie was soundly sleeping, after a long
evening of troubled thought. She had her elbow in an awkward
position under her side. The muscles so held irritated a few nerves,
and now a vague scene floated in on the drowsy mind. She fancied she
and Carrie were somewhere beside an old coal-mine. She could see the
tall runway and the heap of earth and coal cast out. There was a
deep pit, into which they were looking; they could see the curious wet
stones far down where the wall disappeared in vague shadows. An old
basket, used for descending, was hanging there, fastened by a worn
rope.
  "Let's get in," said Carrie.
  "Oh, no," said Minnie.
  "Yes, come on," said Carrie.
  She began to pull the basket over, and now, in spite of all protest,
she had swung over and was going down.
  "Carrie," she called, "Carrie, come back;" but Carrie was far down
now and the shadow had swallowed her completely.
  She moved her arm.
  Now the mystic scenery merged queerly and the place was by waters
she had never seen. They were upon some board or ground or something
that reached far out, and at the end of this was Carrie. They looked
about, and now the thing was sinking, and Minnie heard the low sip
of the encroaching water.
  "Come on, Carrie," she called, but Carrie was reaching farther
out. She seemed to recede, and now it was difficult to call to her.
  "Carrie," she called, "Carrie," but her own voice sounded far
away, and the strange waters were blurring everything. She came away
suffering as though she had lost something. She was more inexpressibly
sad than she had even been in life.
  It was this way through many shifts of the tired brain, those
curious phantoms of the spirit slipping in, blurring strange scenes,
one with the other. The last one made her cry out, for Carrie was
slipping away somewhere over a rock, and her fingers had let loose and
she had seen her falling.
  "Minnie! What's the matter? Here, wake up," said Hanson,
disturbed, and shaking her by the shoulder.
  "Wha- what's the matter?" said Minnie, drowsily.
  "Wake up," he said, "and turn over. You're talking in your sleep."

  A week or so later Drouet strolled into Fitzgerald and Moy's, spruce
in dress and manner.
  "Hello, Charley," said Hurstwood, looking out from his office door.
  Drouet strolled over and looked in upon the manager at his desk.
  "When do you go out on the road again?" he inquired.
  "Pretty soon," said Drouet.
  "Haven't seen much of you this trip," said Hurstwood.
  "Well, I've been busy," said Drouet.
  They talked some few minutes on general topics.
  "Say," said Drouet, as if struck by a sudden idea, "I want you to
come out some evening."
  "Out where?" inquired Hurstwood.
  "Out to my house, of course," said Drouet, smiling.
  Hurstwood looked up quizzically, the least suggestion of a smile
hovering about his lips. He studied the face of Drouet in his wise
way, and then with the demeanour of a gentleman, said: "Certainly;
glad to."
  "We'll have a nice game of euchre."
  "May I bring a nice little bottle of Sec?" asked Hurstwood.
  "Certainly," said Drouet. "I'll introduce you."
                        Chapter IX.
      CONVENTION'S OWN TINDER-BOX: THE EYE THAT IS GREEN

  Hurstwood's residence on the North Side, near Lincoln Park, was a
brick building of a very popular type then, a three-story affair
with the first floor sunk a very little below the level of the street.
It had a large bay window bulging out from the second floor, and was
graced in front by a small grassy plot, twenty-five feet wide and
ten feet deep. There was also a small rear yard, walled in by the
fences of the neighbours and holding a stable where he kept his
horse and trap.
  The ten rooms of the house were occupied by himself, his wife Julia,
and his son and daughter, George, Jr., and Jessica. There were besides
these a maid-servant, represented from time to time by girls of
various extraction, for Mrs. Hurstwood was not always easy to please.
  "George, I let Mary go yesterday," was not an unfrequent
salutation at the dinner table.
  "All right," was his only reply. He had long since wearied of
discussing the rancorous subject.
  A lovely home atmosphere is one of the flowers of the world, than
which there is nothing more tender, nothing more delicate, nothing
more calculated to make strong and just the natures cradled and
nourished within it. Those who have never experienced such a
beneficent influence will not understand wherefore the tear springs
glistening to the eyelids at some strange breath in lovely music.
The mystic chords which bind and thrill the heart of the nation,
they will never know.
  Hurstwood's residence could scarcely be said to be infused with this
home spirit. It lacked that toleration and regard without which the
home is nothing. There was fine furniture, arranged as soothingly as
the artistic perception of the occupants warranted. There were soft
rugs, rich, upholstered chairs and divans, a grand piano, a marble
carving of some unknown Venus by some unknown artist, and a number
of small bronzes gathered from heaven knows where, but generally
sold by the large furniture houses along with everything else which
goes to make the "perfectly appointed house."
  In the dining-room stood a sideboard laden with glistening decanters
and other utilities and ornaments in glass, the arrangement of which
could not be questioned. Here was something Hurstwood knew about. He
had studied the subject for years in his business. He took no little
satisfaction in telling each Mary, shortly after she arrived,
something of what the art of the thing required. He was not
garrulous by any means. On the contrary, there was a fine reserve in
his manner toward the entire domestic economy of his life which was
all that is comprehended by the popular term, gentlemanly. He would
not argue, he would not talk freely. In his manner was something of
the dogmatist. What he could not correct, he would ignore. There was a
tendency in him to walk away from the impossible thing.
  There was a time when he had been considerably enamoured of his
Jessica, especially when he was younger and more confined in his
success. Now, however, in her seventeenth year, Jessica had
developed a certain amount of reserve and independence which was not
inviting to the richest form of parental devotion. She was in the high
school, and had notions of life which were decidedly those of a
patrician. She liked nice clothes and urged for them constantly.
Thoughts of love and elegant individual establishments were running in
her head. She met girls at the high school whose parents were truly
rich and whose fathers had standing locally as partners or owners of
solid businesses. These girls gave themselves the airs befitting the
thriving domestic establishments from whence they issued. They were
the only ones of the school about whom Jessica concerned herself.
  Young Hurstwood, Jr., was in his twentieth year, and was already
connected in a promising capacity with a large real estate firm. He
contributed nothing for the domestic expenses of the family, but was
thought to be saving his money to invest in real estate. He had some
ability, considerable vanity, and a love of pleasure that had not,
as yet, infringed upon his duties, whatever they were. He came in
and went out, pursuing his own plans and fancies, addressing a few
words to his mother occasionally, relating some little incident to his
father, but for the most part confining himself to those
generalities with which most conversation concerns itself. He was
not laying bare his desires for any one to see. He did not find any
one in the house who particularly cared to see.
  Mrs. Hurstwood was the type of the woman who has ever endeavoured to
shine and has been more or less chagrined at the evidences of superior
capability in this direction elsewhere. Her knowledge of life extended
to that little conventional round of society of which she was not- but
longed to be- a member. She was not without realisation already that
this thing was impossible, so far as she was concerned. For her
daughter, she hoped better things. Through Jessica she might rise a
little. Through George, Jr.'s, possible success she might draw to
herself the privilege of pointing proudly. Even Hurstwood was doing
well enough, and she was anxious that his small real estate adventures
should prosper. His property holdings, as yet, were rather small,
but his income was pleasing and his position with Fitzgerald and Moy
was fixed. Both those gentlemen were on pleasant and rather informal
terms with him.
  The atmosphere which such personalities would create must be
apparent to all. It worked out in a thousand little conversations, all
of which were of the same calibre.
  "I'm going up to Fox Lake to-morrow," announced George. Jr., at
the dinner table one Friday evening.
  "What's going on up there?" queried Mrs. Hurstwood.
  "Eddie Fahrway's got a new steam launch, and he wants me to come
up and see how it works."
  "How much did it cost him?" asked his mother.
  "Oh, over two thousand dollars. He says it's a dandy."
  "Old Fahrway must be making money," put in Hurstwood.
  "He is, I guess. Jack told me they were shipping Vega-cura to
Australia now- said they sent a whole box to Cape Town last week."
  "Just think of that!" said Mrs. Hurstwood, "and only four years
ago they had that basement in Madison Street."
  "Jack told me they were going to put up a six-story building next
spring in Robey Street."
  "Just think of that!" said Jessica.
  On this particular occasion Hurstwood wished to leave early.
  "I guess I'll be going down town," he remarked, rising.
  "Are we going to McVicker's Monday?" questioned Mrs. Hurstwood,
without rising.
  "Yes," he said indifferently.
  They went on dining, while he went upstairs for his hat and coat.
Presently the door clicked.
  "I guess papa's gone," said Jessica.
  The latter's school news was of a particular stripe.
  "They're going to give a performance in the Lyceum, upstairs," she
reported one day, "and I'm going to be in it."
  "Are you?" said her mother.
  "Yes, and I'll have to have a new dress. Some of the nicest girls in
the school are going to be in it. Miss Palmer is going to take the
part of Portia."
  "Is she?" said Mrs. Hurstwood.
  "They've got that Martha Griswold in it again. She thinks she can
act."
  "Her family doesn't amount to anything, does it?" said Mrs.
Hurstwood sympathetically. "They haven't anything, have they?"
  "No," returned Jessica, "they're poor as church mice."
  She distinguished very carefully between the young boys of the
school, many of whom were attracted by her beauty.
  "What do you think?" she remarked to her mother one evening; "that
Herbert Crane tried to make friends with me."
  "Who is he, my dear?" inquired Mrs. Hurstwood.
  "Oh, no one," said Jessica, pursing her pretty lips. "He's just a
student there. He hasn't anything."
  The other half of this picture came when young Blyford, son of
Blyford, the soap manufacturer, walked home with her. Mrs. Hurstwood
was on the third floor, sitting in a rocking-chair reading, and
happened to look out at the time.
  "Who was that with you, Jessica?" she inquired, as Jessica came
upstairs.
  "It's Mr. Blyford, mamma," she replied.
  "Is it?" said Mrs. Hurstwood.
  "Yes, and he wants me to stroll over into the park with him,"
explained Jessica, a little flushed with running up the stairs.
  "All right, my dear," said Mrs. Hurstwood. "Don't be gone long."
  As the two went down the street, she glanced interestedly out of the
window. It was a most satisfactory spectacle indeed, most
satisfactory.
  In this atmosphere Hurstwood had moved for a number of years, not
thinking deeply concerning it. His was not the order of nature to
trouble for something better, unless the better was immediately and
sharply contrasted. As it was, he received and gave, irritated
sometimes by the little displays of selfish indifference, pleased at
times by some show of finery which supposedly made for dignity and
social distinction. The life of the resort which he managed was his
life. There he spent most of his time. When he went home evenings
the house looked nice. With rare exceptions the meals were acceptable,
being the kind that an ordinary servant can arrange. In part, he was
interested in the talk of his son and daughter, who always looked
well. The vanity of Mrs. Hurstwood caused her to keep her person
rather showily arrayed, but to Hurstwood this was much better than
plainness. There was no love lost between them. There was no great
feeling of dissatisfaction. Her opinion on any subject was not
startling. They did not talk enough together to come to the argument
of any one point. In the accepted and popular phrase, she had her
ideas and he had his. Once in a while he would meet a woman whose
youth, sprightliness, and humour would make his wife seem rather
deficient by contrast, but the temporary dissatisfaction which such an
encounter might arouse would be counterbalanced by his social position
and a certain matter of policy. He could not complicate his home life,
because it might affect his relations with his employers. They
wanted no scandals. A man, to hold his position, must have a dignified
manner, a clean record, a respectable home anchorage. Therefore he was
circumspect in all he did, and whenever he appeared in the public ways
in the afternoon, or on Sunday, it was with his wife, and sometimes
his children. He would visit the local resorts, or those near by in
Wisconsin, and spend a few stiff, polished days strolling about
conventional places doing conventional things. He knew the need of it.
  When some one of the many middle-class individuals whom he knew, who
had money, would get into trouble, he would shake his head. It
didn't do to talk about those things. If it came up for discussion
among such friends as with him passed for close, he would deprecate
the folly of the thing. "It was all right to do it- all men do those
things- but why wasn't he careful? A man can't be too careful." He
lost sympathy for the man that made a mistake and was found out.
  On this account he still devoted some time to showing his wife
about- time which would have been wearisome indeed if it had not
been for the people he would meet and the little enjoyments which
did not depend upon her presence or absence. He watched her with
considerable curiosity at times, for she was still attractive in a way
and men looked at her. She was affable, vain, subject to flattery, and
this combination, he knew quite well, might produce a tragedy in a
woman of her home position. Owing to his order of mind, his confidence
in the sex was not great. His wife never possessed the virtues which
would win the confidence and admiration of a man of his nature. As
long as she loved him vigorously he could see how confidence could be,
but when that was no longer the binding chain- well, something might
happen.
  During the last year or two the expenses of the family seemed a
large thing. Jessica wanted fine clothes, and Mrs. Hurstwood, not to
be outshone by her daughter, also frequently enlivened her apparel.
Hurstwood had said nothing in the past, but one day he murmured.
  "Jessica must have a new dress this month," said Mrs. Hurstwood
one morning.
  Hurstwood was arraying himself in one of his perfection vests before
the glass at the time.
  "I thought she just bought one," he said.
  "That was just something for evening wear," returned his wife
complacently.
  "It seems to me," returned Hurstwood, "that she's spending a good
deal for dresses of late."
  "Well, she's going out more," concluded his wife, but the tone of
his voice impressed her as containing something she had not heard
there before.
  He was not a man who travelled much, but when he did, he had been
accustomed to take her along. On one occasion recently a local
aldermanic junket had been arranged to visit Philadelphia- a junket
that was to last ten days. Hurstwood had been invited.
  "Nobody knows us down there," said one, a gentleman whose face was a
slight improvement over gross ignorance and sensuality. He always wore
a silk hat of most imposing proportions. "We can have a good time."
His left eye moved with just the semblance of a wink. "You want to
come along, George."
  The next day Hurstwood announced his intention to his wife.
  "I'm going away, Julia," he said, "for a few days."
  "Where?" she asked, looking up.
  "To Philadelphia, on business."
  She looked at him consciously, expecting something else.
  "I'll have to leave you behind this time."
  "All right," she replied, but he could see that she was thinking
that it was a curious thing. Before he went she asked him a few more
questions, and that irritated him. He began to feel that she was a
disagreeable attachment.
  On this trip he enjoyed himself thoroughly, and when it was over
he was sorry to get back. He was not willingly a prevaricator, and
hated thoroughly to make explanations concerning it. The whole
incident was glossed over with general remarks, but Mrs. Hurstwood
gave the subject considerable thought. She drove out more, dressed
better, and attended theatres freely to make up for it.
  Such an atmosphere could hardly come under the category of home
life. It ran along by force of habit, by force of conventional
opinion. With the lapse of time it must necessarily become dryer and
dryer- must eventually be tinder, easily lighted and destroyed.
                        Chapter X.
      THE COUNSEL OF WINTER: FORTUNE'S AMBASSADOR CALLS

  In the light of the world's attitude toward woman and her duties,
the nature of Carrie's mental state deserves consideration. Actions
such as hers are measured by an arbitrary scale. Society possesses a
conventional standard whereby it judges all things. All men should
be good, all women virtuous. Wherefore, villain, hast thou failed?
  For all the liberal analysis of Spencer and our modern
naturalistic philosophers, we have but an infantile perception of
morals. There is more in the subject than mere conformity to a law
of evolution. It is yet deeper than conformity to things of earth
alone. It is more involved than we, as yet, perceive. Answer, first,
why the heart thrills; explain wherefore some plaintive note goes
wandering about the world, undying; make clear the rose's subtle
alchemy evolving its ruddy lamp in light and rain. In the essence of
these facts lie the first principles of morals.
  "Oh," thought Drouet, "how delicious is my conquest."
  "Ah," thought Carrie, with mournful misgivings, "what is it I have
lost?"
  Before this world-old proposition we stand, serious, interested,
confused; endeavouring to evolve the true theory of morals- the true
answer to what is right.
  In the view of a certain stratum of society, Carrie was
comfortably established- in the eyes of the starveling, beaten by
every wind and gusty sheet of rain, she was safe in a halcyon harbour.
Drouet had taken three rooms, furnished, in Ogden Place, facing
Union Park, on the West Side. That was a little, green-carpeted
breathing spot, than which, to-day, there is nothing more beautiful in
Chicago. It afforded a vista pleasant to contemplate. The best room
looked out upon the lawn of the park, now sear and brown, where a
little lake lay sheltered. Over the bare limbs of the trees, which now
swayed in the wintry wind, rose the steeple of the Union Park
Congregational Church, and far off the towers of several others.
  The rooms were comfortably enough furnished. There was a good
Brussels carpet on the floor, rich in dull red and lemon shades, and
representing large jardinieres filled with gorgeous, impossible
flowers. There was a large pier-glass mirror between the two
windows. A large, soft, green, plush-covered couch occupied one
corner, and several rocking-chairs were set about. Some pictures,
several rugs, a few small pieces of bric-a-brac, and the tale of
contents is told.
  In the bedroom, off the front room, was Carrie's trunk, bought by
Drouet, and in the wardrobe built into the wall quite an array of
clothing- more than she had ever possessed before, and of very
becoming designs. There was a third room for possible use as a
kitchen, where Drouet had Carrie establish a little portable gas stove
for the preparation of small lunches, oysters, Welsh rarebits, and the
like, of which he was exceedingly fond; and, lastly, a bath. The whole
place was cosey, in that it was lighted by gas and heated by furnace
registers, possessing also a small grate, set with an asbestos back, a
method of cheerful warming which was then first coming into use. By
her industry and natural love of order, which now developed, the place
maintained an air pleasing in the extreme.
  Here, then, was Carrie, established in a pleasant fashion, free of
certain difficulties which most ominously confronted her, laden with
many new ones which were of a mental order, and altogether so turned
about in all of her earthly relationships that she might well have
been a new and different individual. She looked into her glass and saw
a prettier Carrie than she had seen before; she looked into her
mind, a mirror prepared of her own and the world's opinions, and saw a
worse. Between these two images she wavered, hesitating which to
believe.
  "My, but you're a little beauty," Drouet was wont to exclaim to her.
  She would look at him with large, pleased eyes.
  "You know it, don't you?" he would continue.
  "Oh, I don't know," she would reply, feeling delight in the fact
that one should think so, hesitating to believe, though she really
did, that she was vain enough to think so much of herself.
  Her conscience, however, was not a Drouet, interested to praise.
There she heard a different voice, with which she argued, pleaded,
excused. It was no just and sapient counsellor, in its last
analysis. It was only an average little conscience, a thing which
represented the world, her past environment, habit, convention, in a
confused way. With it, the voice of the people was truly the voice
of God.
  "Oh, thou failure!" said the voice.
  "Why?" she questioned.
  "Look at those about," came the whispered answer. "Look at those who
are good. How would they scorn to do what you have done. Look at the
good girls; how will they draw away from such as you when they know
you have been weak. You had not tried before you failed."
  It was when Carrie was alone, looking out across the park, that
she would be listening to this. It would come infrequently- when
something else did not interfere, when the pleasant side was not too
apparent, when Drouet was not there. It was somewhat clear in
utterance at first, but never wholly convincing. There was always an
answer, always the December days threatened. She was alone; she was
desireful; she was fearful of the whistling wind. The voice of want
made answer for her.
  Once the bright days of summer pass by, a city takes on that
sombre garb of grey, wrapt in which it goes about its labours during
the long winter. Its endless buildings look grey, its sky and its
streets assume a sombre hue; the scattered, leafless trees and
wind-blown dust and paper but add to the general solemnity of
colour. There seems to be something in the chill breezes which
scurry through the long, narrow thoroughfares productive of rueful
thoughts. Not poets alone, nor artists, nor that superior order of
mind which arrogates to itself all refinement, feel this, but dogs and
all men. These feel as much as the poet, though they have not the same
power of expression. The sparrow upon the wire, the cat in the
doorway, the dray horse tugging his weary load, feel the long, keen
breaths of winter. It strikes to the heart of all life, animate and
inanimate. If it were not for the artificial fires of merriment, the
rush of profit-seeking trade, and pleasure-selling amusements; if
the various merchants failed to make the customary display within
and without their establishments; if our streets were not strung
with signs of gorgeous hues and thronged with hurrying purchasers,
we would quickly discover how firmly the chill hand of winter lays
upon the heart; how dispiriting are the days during which the sun
withholds a portion of our allowance of light and warmth. We are
more dependent upon these things than is often thought. We are insects
produced by heat, and pass without it.
  In the drag of such a grey day the secret voice would reassert
itself, feebly and more feebly.
  Such mental conflict was not always uppermost. Carrie was not by any
means a gloomy soul. More, she had not the mind to get firm hold
upon a definite truth. When she could not find her way out of the
labyrinth of ill-logic which thought upon the subject created, she
would turn away entirely.
  Drouet, all the time, was conducting himself in a model way for
one of his sort. He took her about a great deal, spent money upon her,
and when he travelled took her with him. There were times when she
would be alone for two or three days, while he made the shorter
circuits of his business, but, as a rule, she saw a great deal of him.
  "Say, Carrie," he said one morning, shortly after they had so
established themselves, "I've invited my friend Hurstwood to come
out some day and spend the evening with us."
  "Who is he?" asked Carrie, doubtfully.
  "Oh, he's a nice man. He's manager of Fitzgerald and Moy's."
  "What's that?" said Carrie.
  "The finest resort in town. It's a way-up, swell place."
  Carrie puzzled a moment. She was wondering what Drouet had told him,
what her attitude would be.
  "That's all right," said Drouet, feeling her thought. "He doesn't
know anything. You're Mrs. Drouet now."
  There was something about this which struck Carrie as slightly
inconsiderate. She could see that Drouet did not have the keenest
sensibilities.
  "Why don't we get married?" she inquired, thinking of the voluble
promises he had made.
  "Well, we will," he said, "just as soon as I get this little deal of
mine closed up."
  He was referring to some property which he said he had, and which
required so much attention, adjustment, and what not, that somehow
or other it interfered with his free moral, personal actions.
  "Just as soon as I get back from my Denver trip in January we'll
do it."
  Carrie accepted this as basis for hope- it was a sort of salve to
her conscience, a pleasant way out. Under the circumstances, things
would be righted. Her actions would be justified.
  She really was not enamoured of Drouet. She was more clever than he.
In a dim way, she was beginning to see where he lacked. If it had
not been for this, if she had not been able to measure and judge him
in a way, she would have been worse off than she was. She would have
adored him. She would have been utterly wretched in her fear of not
gaining his affection, of losing his interest, of being swept away and
left without an anchorage. As it was, she wavered a little, slightly
anxious, at first, to gain him completely, but later feeling at ease
in waiting. She was not exactly sure what she thought of him- what she
wanted to do.
  When Hurstwood called, she met a man who was more clever than Drouet
in a hundred ways. He paid that peculiar deference to women which
every member of the sex appreciates. He was not overawed, he was not
overbold. His great charm was attentiveness. Schooled in winning those
birds of fine feather among his own sex, the merchants and
professionals who visited his resort, he could use even greater tact
when endeavouring to prove agreeable to some one who charmed him. In a
pretty woman of any refinement of feeling whatsoever he found his
greatest incentive. He was mild, placid, assured, giving the
impression that he wished to be of service only- to do something which
would make the lady more pleased.
  Drouet had ability in this line himself when the game was worth
the candle, but he was too much the egotist to reach the polish
which Hurstwood possessed. He was too buoyant, too full of ruddy life,
too assured. He succeeded with many who were not quite schooled in the
art of love. He failed dismally where the woman was slightly
experienced and possessed innate refinement. In the case of Carrie
he found a woman who was all of the latter, but none of the former. He
was lucky in the fact that opportunity tumbled into his lap, as it
were. A few years later, with a little more experience, the
slightest tide of success, and he had not been able to approach Carrie
at all.
  "You ought to have a piano here, Drouet," said Hurstwood, smiling at
Carrie, on the evening in question, "so that your wife could play."
  Drouet had not thought of that.
  "So we ought," he observed readily.
  "Oh, I don't play," ventured Carrie.
  "It isn't very difficult," returned Hurstwood. "You could do very
well in a few weeks."
  He was in the best form for entertaining this evening. His clothes
were particularly new and rich in appearance. The coat lapels stood
out with that medium stiffness which excellent cloth possesses. The
vest was of a rich Scotch plaid, set with a double row of round
mother-of-pearl buttons. His cravat was a shiny combination of
silken threads, not loud, not inconspicuous. What he wore did not
strike the eye so forcibly as that which Drouet had on, but Carrie
could see the elegance of the material. Hurstwood's shoes were of
soft, black calf, polished only to a dull shine. Drouet wore patent
leather, but Carrie could not help feeling that there was a
distinction in favour of the soft leather, where all else was so rich.
She noticed these things almost unconsciously. They were things
which would naturally flow from the situation. She was used to
Drouet's appearance.
  "Suppose we have a little game of euchre?" suggested Hurstwood,
after a light round of conversation. He was rather dexterous in
avoiding everything that would suggest that he knew anything of
Carrie's past. He kept away from personalities altogether, and
confined himself to those things which did not concern individuals
at all. By his manner, he put Carrie at her ease, and by his deference
and pleasantries he amused her. He pretended to be seriously
interested in all she said.
  "I don't know how to play," said Carrie.
  "Charlie, you are neglecting a part of your duty," he observed to
Drouet most affably. "Between us, though," he went on, "we can show
you."
  By his tact he made Drouet feel that he admired his choice. There
was something in his manner that showed that he was pleased to be
there. Drouet felt really closer to him than ever before. It gave
him more respect for Carrie. Her appearance came into a new light,
under Hurstwood's appreciation. The situation livened considerably.
  "Now, let me see," said Hurstwood, looking over Carrie's shoulder
very deferentially. "What have you?" He studied for a moment.
"That's rather good," he said.
  "You're lucky. Now, I'll show you how to trounce your husband. You
take my advice."
  "Here," said Drouet, "if you two are going to scheme together, I
won't stand a ghost of a show. Hurstwood's a regular sharp."
  "No, it's your wife. She brings me luck. Why shouldn't she win?"
  Carrie looked gratefully at Hurstwood, and smiled at Drouet. The
former took the air of a mere friend. He was simply there to enjoy
himself. Anything that Carrie did was pleasing to him, nothing more.
  "There," he said, holding back one of his own good cards, and giving
Carrie a chance to take a trick. "I count that clever playing for a
beginner."
  The latter laughed gleefully as she saw the hand coming her way.
It was as if she were invincible when Hurstwood helped her.
  He did not look at her often. When he did, it was with a mild
light in his eye. Not a shade was there of anything save geniality and
kindness. He took back the shifty, clever gleam, and replaced it
with one of innocence. Carrie could not guess but that it was pleasure
with him in the immediate thing. She felt that he considered she was
doing a great deal.
  "It's unfair to let such playing go without earning something," he
said after a time, slipping his finger into the little coin pocket
of his coat. "Let's play for dimes."
  "All right," said Drouet, fishing for bills.
  Hurstwood was quicker. His fingers were full of new ten-cent pieces.
"Here we are," he said, supplying each one with a little stack.
  "Oh, this is gambling," smiled Carrie. "It's bad."
  "No," said Drouet, "only fun. If you never play for more than
that, you will go to Heaven."
  "Don't you moralise," said Hurstwood to Carrie gently, "until you
see what becomes of the money."
  Drouet smiled.
  "If your husband gets them, he'll tell you how bad it is."
  Drouet laughed loud.
  There was such an ingratiating tone about Hurstwood's voice, the
insinuation was so perceptible that even Carrie got the humour of it.
  "When do you leave?" said Hurstwood to Drouet.
  "On Wednesday," he replied.
  "It's rather hard to have your husband running about like that,
isn't it?" said Hurstwood, addressing Carrie.
  "She's going along with me this time," said Drouet.
  "You must both go with me to the theatre before you go."
  "Certainly," said Drouet, "Eh, Carrie?"
  "I'd like it ever so much," she replied.
  Hurstwood did his best to see that Carrie won the money. He rejoiced
in her success, kept counting her winnings, and finally gathered and
put them in her extended hand. They spread a little lunch, at which he
served the wine, and afterwards he used fine tact in going.
  "Now," he said, addressing first Carrie and then Drouet with his
eyes, "you must be ready at 7:30. I'll come and get you."
  They went with him to the door and there was his cab waiting, its
red lamps gleaming cheerfully in the shadow.
  "Now," he observed to Drouet, with a tone of good-fellowship,
"when you leave your wife alone, you must let me show her around a
little. It will break up her loneliness."
  "Sure," said Drouet, quite pleased at the attention shown.
  "You're so kind," observed Carrie.
  "Not at all," said Hurstwood, "I would want your husband to do as
much for me."
  He smiled and went lightly away. Carrie was thoroughly impressed.
She had never come in contact with such grace. As for Drouet, he was
equally pleased.
  "There's a nice man," he remarked to Carrie, as they returned to
their cosey chamber. "A good friend of mine, too."
  "He seems to be," said Carrie.
                        Chapter XI.
     THE PERSUASION OF FASHION: FEELING GUARDS O'ER ITS OWN

  Carrie was an apt student of fortune's ways- of fortune's
superficialities. Seeing a thing, she would immediately set to
inquiring how she would look, properly related to it. Be it known that
this is not fine feeling, it is not wisdom. The greatest minds are not
so afflicted; and, on the contrary the lowest order of mind is not
so disturbed. Fine clothes to her were a vast persuasion; they spoke
tenderly and Jesuitically for themselves. When she came within earshot
of their pleading, desire in her bent a willing ear. The voice of
the so-called inanimate! Who shall translate for us the language of
the stones?
  "My dear," said the lace collar she secured from Partridge's, "I fit
you beautifully; don't give me up."
  "Ah, such little feet," said the leather of the soft new shoes; "how
effectively I cover them. What a pity they should ever want my aid."
  Once these things were in her hand, on her person, she might dream
of giving them up; the method by which they came might intrude
itself so forcibly that she would ache to be rid of the thought of it,
but she would not give them up. "Put on the old clothes- that torn
pair of shoes," was called to her by her conscience in vain. She could
possibly have conquered the fear of hunger and gone back; the
thought of hard work and a narrow round of suffering would, under
the last pressure of conscience, have yielded, but spoil her
appearance?- be old-clothed and poor-appearing?- never!
  Drouet heightened her opinion on this and allied subjects in such
a manner as to weaken her power of resisting their influence. It is so
easy to do this when the thing opined is in the line of what we
desire. In his hearty way, he insisted upon her good looks. He
looked at her admiringly, and she took it at its full value. Under the
circumstances, she did not need to carry herself as pretty women do.
She picked that knowledge up fast enough for herself. Drouet had a
habit, characteristic of his kind, of looking after stylishly
dressed or pretty women on the street and remarking upon them. He
had just enough of the feminine love of dress to be a good judge-
not of intellect, but of clothes. He saw how they set their little
feet, how they carried their chins, with what grace and sinuosity they
swung their bodies. A dainty, self-conscious swaying of the hips by
a woman was to him as alluring as the glint of rare wine to a toper.
He would turn and follow the disappearing vision with his eyes. He
would thrill as a child with the unhindered passion that was in him.
He loved the thing that women love in themselves, grace. At this,
their own shrine, he knelt with them, an ardent devotee.
  "Did you see that woman who went by just now?" he said to Carrie
on the first day they took a walk together. "Fine stepper, wasn't
she?"
  Carrie looked, and observed the grace commended.
  "Yes, she is," she returned, cheerfully, a little suggestion of
possible defect in herself awakening in her mind. If that was so fine,
she must look at it more closely. Instinctively, she felt a desire
to imitate it. Surely she could do that too.
  When one of her mind sees many things emphasized and reemphasized
and admired, she gathers the logic of it and applies accordingly.
Drouet was not shrewd enough to see that this was not tactful. He
could not see that it would be better to make her feel that she was
competing with herself, not others better than herself. He would not
have done it with an older, wiser woman, but in Carrie he saw only the
novice. Less clever than she, he was naturally unable to comprehend
her sensibility. He went on educating and wounding her, a thing rather
foolish in one whose admiration for his pupil and victim was apt to
grow.
  Carrie took the instructions affably. She saw what Drouet liked;
in a vague way she saw where he was weak. It lessens a woman's opinion
of a man when she learns that his admiration is so pointedly and
generously distributed. She sees but one object of supreme
compliment in this world, and that is herself. If a man is to
succeed with many women, he must be all in all to each.
  In her own apartments Carrie saw things which were lessons in the
same school.
  In the same house with her lived an official of one of the theatres,
Mr. Frank A. Hale, manager of the Standard, and his wife, a
pleasing-looking brunette of thirty-five. They were people of a sort
very common in America today, who live respectably from hand to mouth.
Hale received a salary of forty-five dollars a week. His wife, quite
attractive, affected the feeling of youth, and objected to that sort
of home life which means the care of a house and the raising of a
family. Like Drouet and Carrie, they also occupied three rooms on
the floor above.
  Not long after she arrived Mrs. Hale established social relations
with her, and together they went about. For a long time this was her
only companionship, and the gossip of the manager's wife formed the
medium through which she saw the world. Such trivialities, such
praises of wealth, such conventional expression of morals as sifted
through this passive creature's mind, fell upon Carrie and for the
while confused her.
  On the other hand, her own feelings were a corrective influence. The
constant drag to something better was not to be denied. By those
things which address the heart was she steadily recalled. In the
apartments across the hall were a young girl and her mother. They were
from Evansville, Indiana, the wife and daughter of a railroad
treasurer. The daughter was here to study music, the mother to keep
her company.
  Carrie did not make their acquaintance, but she saw the daughter
coming in and going out. A few times she had seen her at the piano
in the parlour, and not infrequently had heard her play. This young
woman was particularly dressy for her station, and wore a jewelled
ring or two which flashed upon her white fingers as she played.
  Now Carrie was affected by music. Her nervous composition
responded to certain strains, much as certain strings of a harp
vibrate when a corresponding key of a piano is struck. She was
delicately moulded in sentiment, and answered with vague ruminations
to certain wistful chords. They awoke longings for those things
which she did not have. They caused her to cling closer to things
she possessed. One short song the young lady played in a most
soulful and tender mood. Carrie heard it through the open door from
the parlour below. It was at that hour between afternoon and night
when, for the idle, the wanderer, things are apt to take on a
wistful aspect. The mind wanders forth on far journeys and returns
with sheaves of withered and departed joys. Carrie sat at her window
looking out. Drouet had been away since ten in the morning. She had
amused herself with a walk, a book by Bertha M. Clay which Drouet
had left there, though she did not wholly enjoy the latter, and by
changing her dress for the evening. Now she sat looking out across the
park as wistful and depressed as the nature which craves variety and
life can be under such circumstances. As she contemplated her new
state, the strain from the parlour below stole upward. With it her
thoughts became coloured and enmeshed. She reverted to the things
which were best and saddest within the small limit of her
experience. She became for the moment a repentant.
  While she was in this mood Drouet came in, bringing with him an
entirely different atmosphere. It was dusk and Carrie had neglected to
light the lamp. The fire in the grate, too, had burned low.
  "Where are you, Cad?" he said, using a pet name he had given her.
  "Here," she answered.
  There was something delicate and lonely in her voice, but he could
not hear it. He had not the poetry in him that would seek a woman
out under such circumstances and console her for the tragedy of
life. Instead, he struck a match and lighted the gas.
  "Hello," he exclaimed, "you've been crying."
  Her eyes were still wet with a few vague tears.
  "Pshaw," he said, "you don't want to do that."
  He took her hand, feeling in his good-natured egotism that it was
probably lack of his presence which had made her lonely.
  "Come on, now," he went on; "it's all right. Let's waltz a little to
that music."
  He could not have introduced a more incongruous proposition. It made
clear to Carrie that he could not sympathise with her. She could not
have framed thoughts which would have expressed his defect or made
clear the difference between them, but she felt it. It was his first
great mistake.
  What Drouet said about the girl's grace, as she tripped out evenings
accompanied by her mother, caused Carrie to perceive the nature and
value of those little modish ways which women adopt when they would
presume to be something. She looked in the mirror and pursed up her
lips, accompanying it with a little toss of the head, as she had
seen the railroad treasurer's daughter do. She caught up her skirts
with an easy swing, for had not Drouet remarked that in her and
several others, and Carrie was naturally imitative. She began to get
the hang of those little things which the pretty woman who has
vanity invariably adopts. In short, her knowledge of grace doubled,
and with it her appearance changed. She became a girl of
considerable taste.
  Drouet noticed this. He saw the new bow in her hair and the new
way of arranging her locks which she affected one morning.
  "You look fine that way, Cad," he said.
  "Do I?" she replied, sweetly. It made her try for other effects that
selfsame day.
  She used her feet less heavily, a thing that was brought about by
her attempting to imitate the treasurer's daughter's graceful
carriage. How much influence the presence of that young woman in the
same house had upon her it would be difficult to say. But, because
of all these things, when Hurstwood called he had found a young
woman who was much more than the Carrie to whom Drouet had first
spoken. The primary defects of dress and manner had passed. She was
pretty, graceful, rich in the timidity born of uncertainty, and with a
something childlike in her large eyes which captured the fancy of this
starched and conventional poser among men. It was the ancient
attraction of the fresh for the stale. If there was a touch of
appreciation left in him for the bloom and unsophistication which is
the charm of youth, it rekindled now. He looked into her pretty face
and felt the subtle waves of young life radiating therefrom. In that
large clear eye he could see nothing that his blase nature could
understand as guile. The little vanity, if he could have perceived
it there, would have touched him as a pleasant thing.
  "I wonder," he said, as he rode away in his cab, "how Drouet came to
win her."
  He gave her credit for feelings superior to Drouet at the first
glance.
  The cab plopped along between the far-receding lines of gas lamps on
either hand. He folded his gloved hands and saw only the lighted
chamber and Carrie's face. He was pondering over the delight of
youthful beauty.
  "I'll have a bouquet for her," he thought. "Drouet won't mind."
  He never for a moment concealed the fact of her attraction for
himself. He troubled himself not at all about Drouet's priority. He
was merely floating those gossamer threads of thought which, like
the spider's, he hoped would lay hold somewhere. He did not know, he
could not guess, what the result would be.
  A few weeks later Drouet, in his peregrinations, encountered one
of his well-dressed lady acquaintances in Chicago on his return from a
short trip to Omaha. He had intended to hurry out to Ogden Place and
surprise Carrie, but now he fell into an interesting conversation
and soon modified his original intention.
  "Let's go to dinner," he said, little recking any chance meeting
which might trouble his way.
  "Certainly," said his companion.
  They visited one of the better restaurants for a social chat. It was
five in the afternoon when they met; it was seven-thirty before the
last bone was picked.
  Drouet was just finishing a little incident he was relating, and his
face was expanding into a smile, when Hurstwood's eye caught his
own. The latter had come in with several friends, and, seeing Drouet
and some woman, not Carrie, drew his own conclusion.
  "Ah, the rascal," he thought, and then, with a touch of righteous
sympathy, "that's pretty hard on the little girl."
  Drouet jumped from one easy thought to another as he caught
Hurstwood's eye. He felt but very little misgiving, until he saw
that Hurstwood was cautiously pretending not to see. Then some of
the latter's impression forced itself upon him. He thought of Carrie
and their last meeting. By George, he would have to explain this to
Hurstwood. Such a chance half-hour with an old friend must not have
anything more attached to it than it really warranted.
  For the first time he was troubled. Here was a moral complication of
which he could not possibly get the ends. Hurstwood would laugh at him
for being a fickle boy. He would laugh with Hurstwood. Carrie would
never hear, his present companion at table would never know, and yet
he could not help feeling that he was getting the worst of it- there
was some faint stigma attached, and he was not guilty. He broke up the
dinner by becoming dull, and saw his companion on her car. Then he
went home.
  "He hasn't talked to me about any of these later flames," thought
Hurstwood to himself. "He thinks I think he cares for the girl out
there."
  "He ought not to think I'm knocking around, since I have just
introduced him out there," thought Drouet.
  "I saw you," Hurstwood said, genially, the next time Drouet
drifted in to his polished resort, from which he could not stay
away. He raised his forefinger indicatively, as parents do to
children.
  "An old acquaintance of mine that I ran into just as I was coming up
from the station," explained Drouet. "She used to be quite a beauty."
  "Still attracts a little, eh?" returned the other, affecting to
jest.
  "Oh, no," said Drouet, "just couldn't escape her this time."
  "How long are you here?" asked Hurstwood.
  "Only a few days."
  "You must bring the girl down and take dinner with me," he said.
"I'm afraid you keep her cooped up out there. I'll get a box for Joe
Jefferson."
  "Not me," answered the drummer. "Sure I'll come."
  This pleased Hurstwood immensely. He gave Drouet no credit for any
feelings toward Carrie whatever. He envied him, and now, as he
looked at the well-dressed, jolly salesman, whom he so much liked, the
gleam of the rival glowed in his eye. He began to "size up" Drouet
from the standpoints of wit and fascination. He began to look to see
where he was weak. There was no disputing that, whatever he might
think of him as a good fellow, he felt a certain amount of contempt
for him as a lover. He could hood-wink him all right. Why, if he would
just let Carrie see one such little incident as that of Thursday, it
would settle the matter. He ran on in thought, almost exulting, the
while he laughed and chatted, and Drouet felt nothing. He had no power
of analysing the glance and the atmosphere of a man like Hurstwood. He
stood and smiled and accepted the invitation while his friend examined
him with the eye of a hawk.
  The object of this peculiarly involved comedy was not thinking of
either. She was busy adjusting her thoughts and feelings to newer
conditions, and was not in danger of suffering disturbing pangs from
either quarter.
  One evening Drouet found her dressing herself before the glass.
  "Cad," said he, catching her, "I believe you're getting vain."
  "Nothing of the kind," she returned, smiling.
  "Well, you're mighty pretty," he went on, slipping his arm around
her. "Put on that navy-blue dress of yours and I'll take you to the
show."
  "Oh, I've promised Mrs. Hale to go with her to the Exposition
to-night," she returned, apologetically.
  "You did, eh?" he said, studying the situation abstractedly. "I
wouldn't care to go to that myself."
  "Well, I don't know," answered Carrie, puzzling, but not offering to
break her promise in his favour.
  Just then a knock came at their door and the maid-serveant handed
a letter in.
  "He says there's an answer expected," she explained.
  "It's from Hurstwood," said Drouet, noting the superscription as
he tore it open.
  "You are to come down and see Joe Jefferson with me tonight," it ran
in part. "It's my turn, as we agreed the other day. All other bets are
off."
  "Well, what do you say to this?" asked Drouet, innocently, while
Carrie's mind bubbled with favourable replies.
  "You had better decide, Charlie," she said, reservedly.
  "I guess we had better go, if you can break that engagement
upstairs," said Drouet.
  "Oh, I can," returned Carrie without thinking.
  Drouet selected writing paper while Carrie went to change her dress.
She hardly explained to herself why this latest invitation appealed to
her most.
  "Shall I wear my hair as I did yesterday?" she asked, as she came
out with several articles of apparel pending.
  "Sure," he returned, pleasantly.
  She was relieved to see that he felt nothing. She did not credit her
willingness to go to any fascination Hurstwood held for her. It seemed
that the combination of Hurstwood, Drouet, and herself was more
agreeable than anything else that had been suggested. She arrayed
herself most carefully and they started off, extending excuses
upstairs.
  "I say," said Hurstwood, as they came up the theatre lobby, "we
are exceedingly charming this evening."
  Carrie fluttered under his approving glance.
  "Now, then," he said, leading the way up the foyer into the theatre.
  If ever there was dressiness it was here. It was the personification
of the old term spick and span.
  "Did you ever see Jefferson?" he questioned, as he leaned toward
Carrie in the box.
  "I never did," she returned.
  "He's delightful, delightful," he went on, giving the commonplace
rendition of approval which such men know. He sent Drouet after a
programme, and then discoursed to Carrie concerning Jefferson as he
had heard of him. The former was pleased beyond expression, and was
really hypnotised by the environment, the trappings of the box, the
elegance of her companion. Several times their eyes accidentally
met, and then there poured into hers such a flood of feeling as she
had never before experienced. She could not for the moment explain it,
for in the next glance or the next move of the hand there was
seeming indifference, mingled only with the kindest attention.
  Drouet shared in the conversation, but he was almost dull in
comparison. Hurstwood entertained them both, and now it was driven
into Carrie's mind that here was the superior man. She instinctively
felt that he was stronger and higher, and yet withal so simple. By the
end of the third act she was sure that Drouet was only a kindly
soul, but otherwise defective. He sank every moment in her
estimation by the strong comparison.
  "I have had such a nice time," said Carrie, when it was all over and
they were coming out.
  "Yes, indeed," added Drouet, who was not in the least aware that a
battle had been fought and his defences weakened. He was like the
Emperor of China, who sat glorying in himself, unaware that his
fairest provinces were being wrested from him.
  "Well, you have saved me a dreary evening," returned Hurstwood.
"Good-night."
  He took Carrie's little hand, and a current of feeling swept from
one to the other.
  "I'm so tired," said Carrie, leaning back in the car when Drouet
began to talk.
  "Well, you rest a little while I smoke," he said, rising, and then
he foolishly went to the forward platform of the car and left the game
as it stood.
                       Chapter XII.
     OF THE LAMPS OF THE MANSIONS: THE AMBASSADOR'S PLEA

  Mrs. Hurstwood was not aware of any of her husband's moral
defections, though she might readily have suspected his tendencies,
which she well understood. She was a woman upon whose action under
provocation you could never count. Hurstwood, for one, had not the
slightest idea of what she would do under certain circumstances. He
had never seen her thoroughly aroused. In fact, she was not a woman
who would fly into a passion. She had too little faith in mankind
not to know that they were erring. She was too calculating to
jeopardise any advantage she might gain in the way of information by
fruitless clamour. Her wrath would never wreak itself in one fell
blow. She would wait and brood, studying the details and adding to
them until her power might be commensurate with her desire for
revenge. At the same time, she would not delay to inflict any
injury, big or little, which would wound the object of her revenge and
still leave him uncertain as to the source of the evil. She was a
cold, self-centered woman, with many a thought of her own which
never found expression, not even by so much as the glint of an eye.
  Hurstwood felt some of this in her nature, though he did not
actually perceive it. He dwelt with her in peace and some
satisfaction. He did not fear her in the least- there was no cause for
it. She still took a faint pride in him, which was augmented by her
desire to have her social integrity maintained. She was secretly
somewhat pleased by the fact that much of her husband's property was
in her name, a precaution which Hurstwood had taken when his home
interests were somewhat more alluring than at present. His wife had
not the slightest reason to feel that anything would ever go amiss
with their household, and yet the shadows which run before gave her
a thought of the good of it now and then. She was in a position to
become refractory with considerable advantage, and Hurstwood conducted
himself circumspectly because he felt that he could not be sure of
anything once she became dissatisfied.
  It so happened that on the night when Hurstwood, Carrie, and
Drouet were in the box at McVickar's, George, Jr., was in the sixth
row of the parquet with the daughter of H. B. Carmichael, the third
partner of a wholesale drygoods house of that city. Hurstwood did
not see his son, for he sat, as was his wont, as far back as possible,
leaving himself just partially visible, when he bent forward, to those
within the first six rows in question. It was his wont to sit this way
in every theatre- to make his personality as inconspicuous as possible
where it would be no advantage to him to have it otherwise.
  He never moved but what, if there was any danger of his conduct
being misconstrued or ill-reported, he looked carefully about him
and counted the cost of every inch of conspicuity.
  The next morning at breakfast his son said:
  "I saw you, Governor, last night."
  "Were you at McVickar's?" said Hurstwood, with the best grace in the
world.
  "Yes," said young George.
  "Who with?"
  "Miss Carmichael."
  Mrs. Hurstwood directed an inquiring glance at her husband, but
could not judge from his appearance whether it was any more than a
casual look into the theatre which was referred to.
  "How was the play?" she inquired.
  "Very good," returned Hurstwood, "only it's the same old thing, 'Rip
Van Winkle'."
  "Whom did you go with?" queried his wife, with assumed indifference.
  "Charlie Drouet and his wife. They are friends of Moy's, visiting
here."
  Owing to the peculiar nature of his position, such a disclosure as
this would ordinarily create no difficulty. His wife took it for
granted that his situation called for certain social movements in
which she might not be included. But of late he had pleaded office
duty on several occasions when his wife asked for his company to any
evening entertainment. He had done so in regard to the very evening in
question only the morning before.
  "I thought you were going to be busy," she remarked, very carefully.
  "So I was," he exclaimed. "I couldn't help the interruption, but I
made up for it afterward by working until two."
  This settled the discussion for the time being, but there was a
residue of opinion which was not satisfactory. There was no time at
which the claims of his wife could have been more unsatisfactorily
pushed. For years he had been steadily modifying his matrimonial
devotion, and found her company dull. Now that a new light shone
upon the horizon, this older luminary paled in the west. He was
satisfied to turn his face away entirely, and any call to look back
was irksome.
  She, on the contrary, was not at all inclined to accept anything
less than a complete fulfilment of the letter of their relationship,
though the spirit might be wanting.
  "We are coming down town this afternoon," she remarked, a few days
later. "I want you to come over to Kinsley's and meet Mr. Phillips and
his wife. They're stopping at the Tremont, and we're going to show
them around a little."
  After the occurrence of Wednesday, he could not refuse, though the
Phillips were about as uninteresting as vanity and ignorance could
make them. He agreed, but it was with short grace. He was angry when
he left the house.
  "I'll put a stop to this," he thought. "I'm not going to be bothered
fooling around with visitors when I have work to do."
  Not long after this Mrs. Hurstwood came with a similar
proposition, only it was to a matinee this time.
  "My dear," he returned, "I haven't time. I'm too busy."
  "You find time to go with other people, though," she replied, with
considerable irritation.
  "Nothing of the kind," he answered. "I can't avoid business
relations, and that's all there is to it."
  "Well, never mind," she exclaimed. Her lips tightened. The feeling
of mutual antagonism was increased.
  On the other hand, his interest in Drouet's little shop-girl grew in
an almost evenly balanced proportion. That young lady, under the
stress of her situation and the tutelage of her new friend, changed
effectively. She had the aptitude of the struggler who seeks
emancipation. The glow of a more showy life was not lost upon her. She
did not grow in knowledge so much as she awakened in the matter of
desire. Mrs. Hale's extended harangues upon the subjects of wealth and
position taught her to distinguish between degrees of wealth.
  Mrs. Hale loved to drive in the afternoon in the sun when it was
fine, and to satisfy her soul with a sight of those mansions and lawns
which she could not afford. On the North Side had been erected a
number of elegant mansions along what is now known as the North
Shore Drive. The present lake wall of stone and granitoid was not then
in place, but the road had been well laid out, the intermediate spaces
of lawn were lovely to look upon, and the houses were thoroughly new
and imposing. When the winter season had passed and the first fine
days of the early spring appeared, Mrs. Hale secured a buggy for an
afternoon and invited Carrie. They rode first through Lincoln Park and
on far out towards Evanston, turning back at four and arriving at
the north end of the Shore Drive at about five o'clock. At this time
of year the days are still comparatively short, and the shadows of the
evening were beginning to settle down upon the great city. Lamps
were beginning to burn with that mellow radiance which seems almost
watery and translucent to the eye. There was a softness in the air
which speaks with an infinite delicacy of feeling to the flesh as well
as to the soul. Carrie felt that it was a lovely day. She was
ripened by it in spirit for many suggestions. As they drove along
the smooth pavement an occasional carriage passed. She saw one stop
and the footman dismount, opening the door for a gentleman who
seemed to be leisurely returning from some afternoon pleasure.
Across the broad lawns, now first freshening into green, she saw lamps
faintly glowing upon rich interiors. Now it was but a chair, now a
table, now an ornate corner, which met her eye, but it appealed to her
as almost nothing else could. Such childish fancies as she had had
of fairy palaces and kingly quarters now came back. She imagined
that across these richly carved entrance-ways, where the globed and
crystalled lamps shone upon panelled doors set with stained and
designed panes of glass, was neither care nor unsatisfied desire.
She was perfectly certain that here was happiness. If she could but
stroll up yon broad walk, cross that rich entrance-way, which to her
was of the beauty of a jewel, and sweep in grace and luxury to
possession and command- oh! how quickly would sadness flee; how, in an
instant, would the heartache end. She gazed and gazed, wondering,
delighting, longing, and all the while the siren voice of the
unrestful was whispering in her ear.
  "If we could have such a home as that," said Mrs. Hale sadly, "how
delightful it would be."
  "And yet they do say," said Carrie, "that no one is ever happy."
  She had heard so much of the canting philosophy of the grapeless
fox.
  "I notice," said Mrs. Hale, "that they all try mighty hard,
though, to take their misery in a mansion."
  When she came to her own rooms, Carrie saw their comparative
insignificance. She was not so dull but that she could perceive they
were but three small rooms in a moderately well-furnished
boarding-house. She was not contrasting it now with what she had
had, but what she had so recently seen. The glow of the palatial doors
was still in her eye, the roll of cushioned carriages still in her
ears. What, after all, was Drouet? What was she? At her window, she
thought it over, rocking to and fro, and gazing out across the
lamp-lit park toward the lamp-lit houses on Warren and Ashland
avenues. She was too wrought up to care to go down to eat, too pensive
to do aught but rock and sing. Some old tunes crept to her lips,
and, as she sang them, her heart sank. She longed and longed and
longed. It was now for the old cottage room in Columbia City, now
the mansion upon the Shore Drive, now the fine dress of some lady, now
the elegance of some scene. She was sad beyond measure, and yet
uncertain, wishing, fancying. Finally, it seemed as if all her state
was one of loneliness and forsakenness, and she could scarce refrain
from trembling at the lip. She hummed and hummed as the moments went
by, sitting in the shadow by the window, and was therein as happy,
though she did not perceive it, as she ever would be.
  While Carrie was still in this frame of mind, the house-servant
brought up the intelligence that Mr. Hurstwood was in the parlour
asking to see Mr. and Mrs. Drouet.
  "I guess he doesn't know that Charlie is out of town," thought
Carrie.
  She had seen comparatively little of the manager during the
winter, but had been kept constantly in mind of him by one thing and
another, principally by the strong impression he had made. She was
quite disturbed for the moment as to her appearance, but soon
satisfied herself by the aid of the mirror, and went below.
  Hurstwood was in his best form, as usual. He hadn't heard that
Drouet was out of town. He was but slightly affected by the
intelligence, and devoted himself to the more general topics which
would interest Carrie. It was surprising- the ease with which he
conducted a conversation. He was like every man who has had the
advantage of practice and knows he has sympathy. He knew that Carrie
listened to him pleasurably, and, without the least effort, he fell
into a train of observation which absorbed her fancy. He drew up his
chair and modulated his voice to such a degree that what he said
seemed wholly confidential. He confined himself almost exclusively
to his observation of men and pleasures. He had been here and there,
he had seen this and that. Somehow he made Carrie wish to see
similar things, and all the while kept her aware of himself. She could
not shut out the consciousness of his individuality and presence for a
moment. He would raise his eyes slowly in smiling emphasis of
something, and she was fixed by their magnetism. He would draw out,
with the easiest grace, her approval. Once he touched her hand for
emphasis and she only smiled. He seemed to radiate an atmosphere which
suffused her being. He was never dull for a minute, and seemed to make
her clever. At least, she brightened under his influence until all her
best side was exhibited. She felt that she was more clever with him
than with others. At least, he seemed to find so much in her to
applaud. There was not the slightest touch of patronage. Drouet was
full of it.
  There had been something so personal, so subtle, in each meeting
between them, both when Drouet was present and when he was absent,
that Carrie could not speak of it without feeling a sense of
difficulty. She was no talker. She could never arrange her thoughts in
fluent order. It was always a matter of feeling with her, strong and
deep. Each time there had been no sentence of importance which she
could relate, and as for the glances and sensations, what woman
would reveal them? Such things had never been between her and
Drouet. As a matter of fact, they could never be. She had been
dominated by distress and the enthusiastic forces of relief which
Drouet represented at an opportune moment when she yielded to him. Now
she was persuaded by secret current feelings which Drouet had never
understood. Hurstwood's glance was as effective as the spoken words of
a lover, and more. They called for no immediate decision, and could
not be answered.
  People in general attach too much importance to words. They are
under the illusion that talking effects great results. As a matter
of fact, words are, as a rule, the shallowest portion of all the
argument. They but dimly represent the great surging feelings and
desires which lie behind. When the distraction of the tongue is
removed, the heart listens.
  In this conversation she heard, instead of his words, the voices
of the things which he represented. How suave was the counsel of his
appearance! How feelingly did his superior state speak for itself! The
growing desire he felt for her lay upon her spirit as a gentle hand.
She did not need to tremble at all, because it was invisible; she
did not need to worry over what other people would say- what she
herself would say- because it had no tangibility. She was being
pleaded with, persuaded, led into denying old rights and assuming
new ones, and yet there were no words to prove it. Such conversation
as was indulged in held the same relationship to the actual mental
enactments of the twain that the low music of the orchestra does to
the dramatic incident which it is used to cover.
  "Have you ever seen the houses along the Lake Shore on the North
Side?" asked Hurstwood.
  "Why, I was just over there this afternoon- Mrs. Hale and I.
Aren't they beautiful?"
  "They're very fine," he answered.
  "Oh, me," said Carrie, pensively. "I wish I could live in such a
place."
  "You're not happy," said Hurstwood, slowly, after a slight pause.
  He had raised his eyes solemnly and was looking into her own. He
assumed that he had struck a deep chord. Now was a slight chance to
say a word in his own behalf. He leaned over quietly and continued his
steady gaze. He felt the critical character of the period. She
endeavoured to stir, but it was useless. The whole strength of a man's
nature was working. He had good cause to urge him on. He looked and
looked, and the longer the situation lasted the more difficult it
became. The little shop-girl was getting into deep water. She was
letting her few supports float away from her.
  "Oh," she said at last, "you mustn't look at me like that."
  "I can't help it," he answered.
  She relaxed a little and let the situation endure, giving him
strength.
  "You are not satisfied with life, are you?"
  "No," she answered, weakly.
  He saw he was the master of the situation- he felt it. He reached
over and touched her hand.
  "You mustn't," she exclaimed, jumping up.
  "I didn't intend to," he answered, easily.
  She did not run away, as she might have done. She did not
terminate the interview, but he drifted off into a pleasant field of
thought with the readiest grace. Not long after he rose to go, and she
felt that he was in power.
  "You mustn't feel bad," he said, kindly; "things will straighten out
in the course of time."
  She made no answer, because she could think of nothing to say.
  "We are good friends, aren't we?" he said, extending his hand.
  "Yes," she answered.
  "Not a word, then, until I see you again."
  He retained a hold on her hand.
  "I can't promise," she said, doubtfully.
  "You must be more generous than that," he said, in such a simple way
that she was touched.
  "Let's not talk about it any more," she returned.
  "All right," he said, brightening.
  He went down the steps and into his cab. Carrie closed the door
and ascended into her room. She undid her broad lace collar before the
mirror and unfastened her pretty alligator belt which she had recently
bought.
  "I'm getting terrible," she said, honestly affected by a feeling
of trouble and shame. "I don't seem to do anything right."
  She unloosed her hair after a time, and let it hang in loose brown
waves. Her mind was going over the events of the evening.
  "I don't know," she murmured at last, "what I can do."
  "Well," said Hurstwood as he rode away, "she likes me all right;
that I know."
  The aroused manager whistled merrily for a good four miles to his
office an old melody that he had not recalled for fifteen years.
                       Chapter XIII.
        HIS CREDENTIALS ACCEPTED: A BABEL OF TONGUES

  It was not quite two days after the scene between Carrie and
Hurstwood in the Ogden Place parlour before he again put in his
appearance. He had been thinking almost uninterruptedly of her. Her
leniency had, in a way, inflamed his regard. He felt that he must
succeed with her, and that speedily.
  The reason for his interest, not to say fascination, was deeper than
mere desire. It was a flowering out of feelings which had been
withering in dry and almost barren soil for many years. It is probable
that Carrie represented a better order of woman than had ever
attracted him before. He had had no love affair since that which
culminated in his marriage, and since then time and the world had
taught him how raw and erroneous was his original judgment. Whenever
he thought of it, he told himself that, if he had it to do over again,
he would never marry such a woman. At the same time, his experience
with women in general had lessened his respect for the sex. He
maintained a cynical attitude, well grounded on numerous
experiences. Such women as he had known were of nearly one type,
selfish, ignorant, flashy. The wives of his friends were not inspiring
to look upon. His own wife had developed a cold, commonplace nature
which to him was anything but pleasing. What he knew of that
under-world where grovel the beast-men of society (and he knew a great
deal) had hardened his nature. He looked upon most women with
suspicion- a single eye to the utility of beauty and dress. He
followed them with a keen, suggestive glance. At the same time, he was
not so dull but that a good woman commanded his respect. Personally,
he did not attempt to analyse the marvel of a saintly woman. He
would take off his hat, and would silence the light-tongued and the
vicious in her presence- much as the Irish keeper of a Bowery hall
will humble himself before a Sister of Mercy, and pay toll to
charity with a willing and reverent hand. But he would not think
much upon the question of why he did so.
  A man in his situation who comes, after a long round of worthless or
hardening experiences, upon a young, unsophisticated, innocent soul,
is apt either to hold aloof, out of a sense of his own remoteness,
or to draw near and become fascinated and elated by his discovery.
It is only by a roundabout process that such men ever do draw near
such a girl. They have no method, no understanding of how to
ingratiate themselves in youthful favour, save when they find virtue
in the toils. If, unfortunately, the fly has got caught in the net,
the spider can come forth and talk business upon its own terms. So
when maidenhood has wandered into the moil of the city, when it is
brought within the circle of the "rounder" and the roue, even though
it be at the outermost rim, they can come forth and use their alluring
arts.
  Hurstwood had gone, at Drouet's invitation, to meet a new baggage of
fine clothes and pretty features. He entered, expecting to indulge
in an evening of lightsome frolic, and then lose track of the newcomer
forever. Instead he found a woman whose youth and beauty attracted
him. In the mild light of Carrie's eye was nothing of the
calculation of the mistress. In the diffident manner was nothing of
the art of the courtesan. He saw at once that a mistake had been made,
that some difficult conditions had pushed this troubled creature
into his presence, and his interest was enlisted. Here sympathy sprang
to the rescue, but it was not unmixed with selfishness. He wanted to
win Carrie because he thought her fate mingled with his was better
than if it were united with Drouet's. He envied the drummer his
conquest as he had never envied any man in all the course of his
experience.
  Carrie was certainly better than this man, as she was superior,
mentally, to Drouet. She came fresh from the air of the village, the
light of the country still in her eye. Here was neither guile nor
rapacity. There were slight inherited traits of both in her, but
they were rudimentary. She was too full of wonder and desire to be
greedy. She still looked about her upon the great maze of the city
without understanding. Hurstwood felt the bloom and the youth. He
picked her as he would the fresh fruit of a tree. He felt as fresh
in her presence as one who is taken out of the flash of summer to
the first cool breath of spring.
  Carrie, left alone since the scene in question, and having no one
with whom to counsel, had at first wandered from one strange mental
conclusion to another, until at last, tired out, she gave it up. She
owed something to Drouet, she thought. It did not seem more than
yesterday that he had aided her when she was worried and distressed.
She had the kindliest feelings for him in every way. She gave him
credit for his good looks, his generous feelings, and even, in fact,
failed to recollect his egotism when he was absent; but she could
not feel any binding influence keeping her for him as against all
others. In fact, such a thought had never had any grounding, even in
Drouet's desires.
  The truth is, that this goodly drummer carried the doom of all
enduring relationships in his own lightsome manner and unstable fancy.
He went merrily on, assured that he was alluring all, that affection
followed tenderly in his wake, that things would endure unchangingly
for his pleasure. When he missed some old face, or found some door
finally shut to him, it did not grieve him deeply. He was too young,
too successful. He would remain thus young in spirit until he was
dead.
  As for Hurstwood, he was alive with thoughts and feelings concerning
Carrie. He had no definite plans regarding her, but he was
determined to make her confess an affection for him. He thought he saw
in her drooping eye, her unstable glance, her wavering manner, the
symptoms of a budding passion. He wanted to stand near her and make
her lay her hand in his- he wanted to find out what her next step
would be- what the next sign of feeling for him would be. Such anxiety
and enthusiasm had not affected him for years. He was a youth again in
feeling- a cavalier in action.
  In his position opportunity for taking his evenings out was
excellent. He was a most faithful worker in general, and a man who
commanded the confidence of his employers in so far as the
distribution of his time was concerned. He could take such hours off
as he chose, for it was well known that he fulfilled his managerial
duties successfully, whatever time he might take. His grace, tact, and
ornate appearance gave the place an air which was most essential,
while at the same time his long experience made him a most excellent
judge of its stock necessities. Bartenders and assistants might come
and go, singly or in groups, but, so long as he was present, the
host of old-time customers would barely notice the change. He gave the
place the atmosphere to which they were used. Consequently, he
arranged his hours very much to suit himself, taking now an afternoon,
now an evening, but invariably returning between eleven and twelve
to witness the last hour or two of the day's business and look after
the closing details.
  "You see that things are safe and all the employees are out when you
go home, George," Moy had once remarked to him, and he never once,
in all the period of his long service, neglected to do this. Neither
of the owners had for years been in the resort after five in the
afternoon, and yet their manager as faithfully fulfilled this
request as if they had been there regularly to observe.
  On this Friday afternoon, scarcely two days after his previous
visit, he made up his mind to see Carrie. He could not stay away
longer.
  "Evans," he said, addressing the head barkeeper, "if any one
calls, I will be back between four and five."
  He hurried to Madison Street and boarded a horse-car, which
carried him to Ogden Place in half an hour.
  Carrie had thought of going for a walk, and had put on a light
grey woollen dress with a jaunty double-breasted jacket. She had out
her hat and gloves, and was fastening a white lace tie about her
throat when the housemaid brought up the information that Mr.
Hurstwood wished to see her.
  She started slightly at the announcement, but told the girl to say
that she would come down in a moment, and proceeded to hasten her
dressing.
  Carrie could not have told herself at this moment whether she was
glad or sorry that the impressive manager was awaiting her presence.
She was slightly flurried and tingling in the cheeks, but it was
more nervousness than either fear or favour. She did not try to
conjecture what the drift of the conversation would be. She only
felt that she must be careful, and that Hurstwood had an indefinable
fascination for her. Then she gave her tie its last touch with her
fingers and went below.
  The deep-feeling manager was himself a little strained in the nerves
by the thorough consciousness of his mission. He felt that he must
make a strong play on this occasion, but now that the hour was come,
and he heard Carrie's feet upon the stair, his nerve failed him. He
sank a little in determination, for he was not so sure, after all,
what her opinion might be.
  When she entered the room, however, her appearance gave him courage.
She looked simple and charming enough to strengthen the daring of
any lover. Her apparent nervousness dispelled his own.
  "How are you?" he said, easily. "I could not resist the temptation
to come out this afternoon, it was so pleasant."
  "Yes," said Carrie, halting before him, "I was just preparing to
go for a walk myself."
  "Oh, were you?" he said. "Supposing, then, you get your hat and we
both go?"
  They crossed the park and went west along Washington Boulevard,
beautiful with its broad macadamised road, and large frame houses
set back from the sidewalks. It was a street where many of the more
prosperous residents of the West Side lived, and Hurstwood could not
help feeling nervous over the publicity of it. They had gone but a few
blocks when a livery stable sign in one of the side streets solved the
difficulty for him. He would take her to drive along the new
Boulevard.
  The Boulevard at that time was little more than a country road.
The part he intended showing her was much farther out on this same
West Side, where there was scarcely a house. It connected Douglas Park
with Washington or South Park, and was nothing more than a neatly made
road, running due south for some five miles over an open, grassy
prairie, and then due east over the same kind of prairie for the
same distance. There was not a house to be encountered anywhere
along the larger part of the route, and any conversation would be
pleasantly free of interruption.
  At the stable he picked a gentle horse, and they were soon out of
range of either public observation or hearing.
  "Can you drive?" he said, after a time.
  "I never tried," said Carrie.
  He put the reins in her hand, and folded his arms.
  "You see there's nothing to it much," he said, smilingly.
  "Not when you have a gentle horse," said Carrie.
  "You can handle a horse as well as any one, after a little
practice," he added, encouragingly.
  He had been looking for some time for a break in the conversation
when he could give it a serious turn. Once or twice he had held his
peace, hoping that in silence her thoughts would take the colour of
his own, but she had lightly continued the subject. Presently,
however, his silence controlled the situation. The drift of his
thoughts began to tell. He gazed fixedly at nothing in particular,
as if he were thinking of something which concerned her not at all.
His thoughts, however, spoke for themselves. She was very much aware
that a climax was pending.
  "Do you know," he said, "I have spent the happiest evenings in years
since I have known you?"
  "Have you?" she said, with assumed airiness, but still excited by
the conviction which the tone of his voice carried.
  "I was going to tell you the other evening," he added, "but
somehow the opportunity slipped away."
  Carrie was listening without attempting to reply. She could think of
nothing worth while to say. Despite all the ideas concerning right
which had troubled her vaguely since she had last seen him, she was
now influenced again strongly in his favour.
  "I came out here to-day," he went on, solemnly, "to tell you just
how I feel- to see if you wouldn't listen to me."
  Hurstwood was something of a romanticist after his kind. He was
capable of strong feelings- often poetic ones- and under a stress of
desire, such as the present, he waxed eloquent. That is, his
feelings and his voice were coloured with that seeming repression
and pathos which is the essence of eloquence.
  "You know," he said, putting his hand on her arm, and keeping a
strange silence while he formulated words, "that I love you?"
  Carrie did not stir at the words. She was bound up completely in the
man's atmosphere. He would have church-like silence in order to
express his feelings, and she kept it. She did not move her eyes
from the flat, open scene before her. Hurstwood waited for a few
moments, and then repeated the words.
  "You must not say that," she said, weakly.
  Her words were not convincing at all. They were the result of a
feeble thought that something ought to be said. He paid no attention
to them whatever.
  "Carrie," he said, using her first name with sympathetic
familiarity, "I want you to love me. You don't know how much I need
some one to waste a little affection on me. I am practically alone.
There is nothing in my life that is pleasant or delightful. It's all
work and worry with people who are nothing to me."
  As he said this, Hurstwood really imagined that his state was
pitiful. He had the ability to get off at a distance and view
himself objectively- of seeing what he wanted to see in the things
which made up his existence. Now, as he spoke, his voice trembled with
that peculiar vibration which is the result of tensity. It went
ringing home to his companion's heart.
  "Why, I should think," she said, turning upon him large eyes which
were full of sympathy and feeling, "that you would be very happy.
You know so much of the world."
  "That is it," he said, his voice dropping to a soft minor, "I know
too much of the world."
  It was an important thing to her to hear one so well-positioned
and powerful speaking in this manner. She could not help feeling the
strangeness of her situation. How was it that, in so little a while,
the narrow life of the country had fallen from her as a garment, and
the city, with all its mystery, taken its place? Here was this
greatest mystery, the man of money and affairs sitting beside her,
appealing to her. Behold, he had ease and comfort, his strength was
great, his position high, his clothing rich, and yet he was
appealing to her. She could formulate no thought which would be just
and right. She troubled herself no more upon the matter. She only
basked in the warmth of his feeling, which was as a grateful blaze
to one who is cold. Hurstwood glowed with his own intensity, and the
heat of his passion was already melting the wax of his companion's
scruples.
  "You think," he said, "I am happy; that I ought not to complain?
If you were to meet all day with people who care absolutely nothing
about you, if you went day after day to a place where there was
nothing but show and indifference, if there was not one person in
all those you knew to whom you could appeal for sympathy or talk to
with pleasure, perhaps you would be unhappy too."
  He was striking a chord now which found sympathetic response in
her own situation. She knew what it was to meet with people who were
indifferent, to walk alone amid so many who cared absolutely nothing
about you. Had not she? Was not she at this very moment quite alone?
Who was there among all whom she knew to whom she could appeal for
sympathy? Not one. She was left to herself to brood and wonder.
  "I could be content," went on Hurstwood, "if I had you to love me.
If I had you to go to; you for a companion. As it is, I simply move
about from place to place without any satisfaction. Time hangs heavily
on my hands. Before you came I did nothing but idle and drift into
anything that offered itself. Since you came- well, I've had you to
think about."
  The old illusion that here was some one who needed her aid began
to grow in Carrie's mind. She truly pitied this sad, lonely figure. To
think that all his fine state should be so barren for want of her;
that he needed to make such an appeal when she herself was lonely
and without anchor. Surely, this was too bad.
  "I am not very bad," he said, apologetically, as if he owed it to
her to explain on this score. "You think, probably, that I roam
around, and get into all sorts of evil? I have been rather reckless,
but I could easily come out of that. I need you to draw me back, if my
life ever amounts to anything."
  Carrie looked at him with the tenderness which virtue ever feels
in its hope of reclaiming vice. How could such a man need
reclaiming? His errors, what were they, that she could correct?
Small they must be, where all was so fine. At worst, they were
gilded affairs, and with what leniency are gilded errors viewed.
  He put himself in such a lonely light that she was deeply moved.
  "Is it that way?" she mused.
  He slipped his arm about her waist, and she could not find the heart
to draw away. With his free hand he seized upon her fingers. A
breath of soft spring wind went bounding over the road, rolling some
brown twigs of the previous autumn before it. The horse paced
leisurely on, unguided.
  "Tell me," he said, softly, "that you love me."
  Her eyes fell consciously.
  "Own to it, dear," he said, feelingly; "you do, don't you?"
  She made no answer, but he felt his victory.
  "Tell me," he said, richly, drawing her so close that their lips
were near together. He pressed her hand warmly, and then released it
to touch her cheek.
  "You do?" he said, pressing his lips to her own.
  For answer, her lips replied.
  "Now," he said, joyously, his fine eyes ablaze, "you're my own girl,
aren't you?"
  By way of further conclusion, her head lay softly upon his shoulder.
                       Chapter XIV.
        WITH EYES AND NOT SEEING: ONE INFLUENCE WANES

  Carrie in her rooms that evening was in a fine glow, physically
and mentally. She was deeply rejoicing in her affection for
Hurstwood and his love, and looked forward with fine fancy to their
next meeting Sunday night. They had agreed, without any feeling of
enforced secrecy, that she should come down town and meet him, though,
after all, the need of it was the cause.
  Mrs. Hale, from her upper window, saw her come in.
  "Um," she thought to herself, "she goes riding with another man when
her husband is out of the city. He had better keep an eye on her."
  The truth is that Mrs. Hale was not the only one who had a thought
on this score. The house-maid who had welcomed Hurstwood had her
opinion also. She had no particular regard for Carrie, whom she took
to be cold and disagreeable. At the same time, she had a fancy for the
merry and easy-mannered Drouet, who threw her a pleasant remark now
and then, and in other ways extended her the evidence of that regard
which he had for all members of the sex. Hurstwood was more reserved
and critical in his manner. He did not appeal to this bodiced
functionary in the same pleasant way. She wondered that he came so
frequently, that Mrs. Drouet should go out with him this afternoon
when Mr. Drouet was absent. She gave vent to her opinions in the
kitchen where the cook was. As a result, a hum of gossip was set going
which moved about the house in that secret manner common to gossip.
  Carrie, now that she had yielded sufficiently to Hurstwood to
confess her affection, no longer troubled about her attitude towards
him. Temporarily she gave little thought to Drouet, thinking only of
the dignity and grace of her lover and of his consuming affection
for her. On the first evening, she did little but go over the
details of the afternoon. It was the first time her sympathies had
ever been thoroughly aroused, and they threw a new light on her
character. She had some power of initiative, latent before, which
now began to exert itself. She looked more practically upon her
state and began to see glimmerings of a way out. Hurstwood seemed a
drag in the direction of honour. Her feelings were exceedingly
creditable, in that they constructed out of these recent
developments something which conquered freedom from dishonour. She had
no idea what Hurstwood's next word would be. She only took his
affection to be a fine thing, and appended better, more generous
results accordingly.
  As yet, Hurstwood had only a thought of pleasure without
responsibility. He did not feel that he was doing anything to
complicate his life. His position was secure, his home-life, if not
satisfactory, was at least undisturbed, his personal liberty rather
untrammelled. Carrie's love represented only so much added pleasure.
He would enjoy this new gift over and above his ordinary allowance
of pleasure. He would be happy with her and his own affairs would go
on as they had, undisturbed.
  On Sunday evening Carrie dined with him at a place he had selected
in East Adams Street, and thereafter they took a cab to what was
then a pleasant evening resort out on Cottage Grove Avenue near 39th
Street. In the process of his declaration he soon realised that Carrie
took his love upon a higher basis than he had anticipated. She kept
him at a distance in a rather earnest way, and submitted only to those
tender tokens of affection which better become the inexperienced
lover. Hurstwood saw that she was not to be possessed for the
asking, and deferred pressing his suit too warmly.
  Since he feigned to believe in her married state he found that he
had to carry out the part. His triumph, he saw, was still at a
little distance. How far he could not guess.
  They were returning to Ogden Place in the cab, when he asked:
  "When will I see you again?"
  "I don't know," she answered, wondering herself.
  "Why not come down to The Fair," he suggested, "next Tuesday?"
  She shook her head.
  "Not so soon," she answered.
  "I'll tell you what I'll do," he added. "I'll write you, care of
this West Side Post-office. Could you call next Tuesday?"
  Carrie assented.
  The cab stopped one door out of the way according to his call.
  "Good-night," he whispered, as the cab rolled away.
  Unfortunately for the smooth progression of this affair, Drouet
returned. Hurstwood was sitting in his imposing little office the next
afternoon when he saw Drouet enter.
  "Why, hello, Charles," he called affably; "back again?"
  "Yes," smiled Drouet, approaching and looking in at the door.
  Hurstwood arose.
  "Well," he said, looking the drummer over, "rosy as ever, eh?"
  They began talking of the people they knew and things that had
happened.
  "Been home yet?" finally asked Hurstwood.
  "No, I am going, though," said Drouet.
  "I remembered the little girl out there," said Hurstwood, "and
called once. Thought you wouldn't want her left quite alone."
  "Right you are," agreed Drouet. "How is she?"
  "Very well," said Hurstwood. "Rather anxious about you, though.
You'd better go out now and cheer her up."
  "I will," said Drouet, smilingly.
  "Like to have you both come down and go to the show with me
Wednesday," concluded Hurstwood at parting.
  "Thanks, old man," said his friend, "I'll see what the girl says and
let you know."
  They separated in the most cordial manner.
  "There's a nice fellow," Drouet thought to himself as he turned
the corner towards Madison.
  "Drouet is a good fellow," Hurstwood thought to himself as he went
back into his office, "but he's no man for Carrie."
  The thought of the latter turned his mind into a most pleasant vein,
and he wondered how he would get ahead of the drummer.
  When Drouet entered Carrie's presence, he caught her in his arms
as usual, but she responded to his kiss with a tremour of opposition.
  "Well," he said, "I had a great trip."
  "Did you? How did you come out with that La Crosse man you were
telling me about?"
  "Oh, fine; sold him a complete line. There was another fellow there,
representing Burnstein, a regular hook-nosed sheeny, but he wasn't
in it. I made him look like nothing at all."
  As he undid his collar and unfastened his studs, preparatory to
washing his face and changing his clothes, he dilated upon his trip.
Carrie could not help listening with amusement to his animated
descriptions.
  "I tell you," he said, "I surprised the people at the office. I've
sold more goods this last quarter than any other man of our house on
the road. I sold three thousand dollars' worth in La Crosse."
  He plunged his face in a basin of water, and puffed and blew as he
rubbed his neck and ears with his hands, while Carrie gazed upon him
with mingled thoughts of recollection and present judgment. He was
still wiping his face, when he continued:
  "I'm going to strike for a raise in June. They can afford to pay it,
as much business as I turn in. I'll get it too, don't you forget."
  "I hope you do," said Carrie.
  "And then if that little real estate deal I've got on goes
through, we'll get married," he said with a great show of earnestness,
the while he took his place before the mirror and began brushing his
hair.
  "I don't believe you ever intend to marry me, Charlie," Carrie
said ruefully. The recent protestations of Hurstwood had given her
courage to say this.
  "Oh, yes I do- course I do- what put that into your head?"
  He had stopped his trifling before the mirror now and crossed over
to her. For the first time Carrie felt as if she must move away from
him.
  "But you've been saying that so long," she said, looking with her
pretty face upturned into his.
  "Well, and I mean it too, but it takes money to live as I want to.
Now, when I get this increase, I can come pretty near fixing things
all right, and I'll do it. Now, don't you worry, girlie."
  He patted her reassuringly upon the shoulder, but Carrie felt how
really futile had been her hopes. She could clearly see that this
easy-going soul intended no move in her behalf. He was simply
letting things drift because he preferred the free round of his
present state to any legal trammellings.
  In contrast, Hurstwood appeared strong and sincere. He had no easy
manner of putting her off. He sympathised with her and showed her what
her true value was. He needed her, while Drouet did not care.
  "Oh, no," she said remorsefully, her tone reflecting some of her own
success and more of her helplessness, "you never will."
  "Well, you wait a little while and see," he concluded. "I'll marry
you all right."
  Carrie looked at him and felt justified. She was looking for
something which would calm her conscience, and here it was, a light,
airy disregard of her claims upon his justice. He had faithfully
promised to marry her, and this was the way he fulfilled his promise.
  "Say," he said, after he had, as he thought, pleasantly disposed
of the marriage question, "I saw Hurstwood to-day, and he wants us
to go to the theatre with him."
  Carrie started at the name, but recovered quickly enough to avoid
notice.
  "When?" she asked, with assumed indifference.
  "Wednesday. We'll go, won't we?"
  "If you think so," she answered, her manner being so enforcedly
reserved as to almost excite suspicion. Drouet noticed something,
but he thought it was due to her feelings concerning their talk
about marriage.
  "He called once, he said."
  "Yes," said Carrie, "he was out here Sunday evening."
  "Was he?" said Drouet. "I thought from what he said that he had
called a week or so ago."
  "So he did," answered Carrie, who was wholly unaware of what
conversation her lovers might have held. She was all at sea
mentally, and fearful of some entanglement which might ensue from what
she would answer.
  "Oh, then he called twice?" said Drouet, the first shade of
misunderstanding showing in his face.
  "Yes," said Carrie innocently, feeling now that Hurstwood must
have mentioned but one call.
  Drouet imagined that he must have misunderstood his friend. He did
not attach particular importance to the information, after all.
  "What did he have to say?" he queried, with slightly increased
curiosity.
  "He said he came because he thought I might be lonely. You hadn't
been in there so long he wondered what had become of you."
  "George is a fine fellow," said Drouet, rather gratified by his
conception of the manager's interest. "Come on and we'll go out to
dinner."
  When Hurstwood saw that Drouet was back he wrote at once to
Carrie, saying:
  "I told him I called on you, dearest, when he was away. I did not
say how often, but he probably thought once. Let me know of anything
you may have said. Answer by special messenger when you get this, and,
darling, I must see you. Let me know if you can't meet me at Jackson
and Throop Streets Wednesday afternoon at two o'clock. I want to speak
with you before we meet at the theatre."
  Carrie received this Tuesday morning when she called at the West
Side branch of the post-office, and answered at once.
  "I said you called twice," she wrote. "He didn't seem to mind. I
will try and be at Throop Street if nothing interferes. I seem to be
getting very bad. It's wrong to act as I do, I know."
  Hurstwood, when he met her as agreed, reassured her on this score.
  "You mustn't worry, sweetheart," he said. "Just as soon as he goes
on the road again we will arrange something. We'll fix it so that
you won't have to deceive any one."
  Carrie imagined that he would marry her at once, though he had not
directly said so, and her spirits rose. She proposed to make the
best of the situation until Drouet left again.
  "Don't show any more interest in me than you ever have," Hurstwood
counselled concerning the evening at the theatre.
  "You mustn't look at me steadily then," she answered, mindful of the
power of his eyes.
  "I won't," he said, squeezing her hand at parting and giving the
glance she had just cautioned against.
  "There," she said playfully, pointing a finger at him.
  "The show hasn't begun yet," he returned.
  He watched her walk from him with tender solicitation. Such youth
and prettiness reacted upon him more subtly than wine.
  At the theatre things passed as they had in Hurstwood's favour. If
he had been pleasing to Carrie before, how much more so was he now.
His grace was more permeating because it found a readier medium.
Carrie watched his every movement with pleasure. She almost forgot
poor Drouet, who babbled on as if he were the host.
  Hurstwood was too clever to give the slightest indication of a
change. He paid, if anything, more attention to his old friend than
usual, and yet in no way held him up to that subtle ridicule which a
lover in favour may so secretly practise before the mistress of his
heart. If anything, he felt the injustice of the game as it stood, and
was not cheap enough to add to it the slightest mental taunt.
  Only the play produced an ironical situation, and this was due to
Drouet alone.
  The scene was one in "The Covenant," in which the wife listened to
the seductive voice of a lover in the absence of her husband.
  "Served him right," said Drouet afterward, even in view of her
keen expiation of her error. "I haven't any pity for a man who would
be such a chump as that."
  "Well, you never can tell," returned Hurstwood gently. "He
probably thought he was right."
  "Well, a man ought to be more attentive than that to his wife if
he wants to keep her."
  They had come out of the lobby and made their way through the
showy crush about the entrance way.
  "Say, mister," said a voice at Hurstwood's side, "would you mind
giving me the price of a bed?"
  Hurstwood was interestedly remarking to Carrie.
  "Honest to God, mister, I'm without a place to sleep."
  The plea was that of a gaunt-faced man of about thirty, who looked
the picture of privation and wretchedness. Drouet was the first to
see. He handed over a dime with an upwelling feeling of pity in his
heart. Hurstwood scarcely noticed the incident. Carrie quickly forgot.
                        Chapter XV.
         THE IRK OF THE OLD TIES: THE MAGIC OF YOUTH

  The complete ignoring by Hurstwood of his own home came with the
growth of his affection for Carrie. His actions, in all that related
to his family, were of the most perfunctory kind. He sat at
breakfast with his wife and children, absorbed in his own fancies,
which reached far without the realm of their interests. He read his
paper, which was heightened in interest by the shallowness of the
themes discussed by his son and daughter. Between himself and his wife
ran a river of indifference.
  Now that Carrie had come, he was in a fair way to be blissful again.
There was delight in going down town evenings. When he walked forth in
the short days, the street lamps had a merry twinkle. He began to
experience the almost forgotten feeling which hastens the lover's
feet. When he looked at his fine clothes, he saw them with her eyes-
and her eyes were young.
  When in the flush of such feelings he heard his wife's voice, when
the insistent demands of matrimony recalled him from dreams to a stale
practice, how it grated. He then knew that this was a chain which
bound his feet.
  "George," said Mrs. Hurstwood, in that tone of voice which had
long since come to be associated in his mind with demands, "we want
you to get us a season ticket to the races."
  "Do you want to go to all of them?" he said with a rising
inflection.
  "Yes," she answered.
  The races in question were soon to open at Washington Park, on the
South Side, and were considered quite society affairs among those
who did not affect religious rectitude and conservatism. Mrs.
Hurstwood had never asked for a whole season ticket before, but this
year certain considerations decided her to get a box. For one thing,
one of her neighbours, a certain Mr. and Mrs. Ramsey, who were
possessors of money, made out of the coal business, had done so. In
the next place, her favourite physician, Dr. Beale, a gentleman
inclined to horses and betting, had talked with her concerning his
intention to enter a two-year-old in the Derby. In the third place,
she wished to exhibit Jessica, who was gaining in maturity and beauty,
and whom she hoped to marry to a man of means. Her own desire to be
about in such things and parade among her acquaintances and the common
throng was as much an incentive as anything.
  Hurstwood thought over the proposition a few moments without
answering. They were in the sitting-room on the second floor,
waiting for supper. It was the evening of his engagement with Carrie
and Drouet to see "The Covenant," which had brought him home to make
some alterations in his dress.
  "You're sure separate tickets wouldn't do as well?" he asked,
hesitating to say anything more rugged.
  "No," she replied impatiently.
  "Well," he said, taking offence at her manner, "you needn't get
mad about it. I'm just asking you."
  "I'm not mad," she snapped. "I'm merely asking you for a season
ticket."
  "And I'm telling you," be returned, fixing a clear, steady eye on
her, "that it's no easy thing to get. I'm not sure whether the manager
will give it to me."
  He had been thinking all the time of his "pull" with the
race-track magnates.
  "We can buy it then," she exclaimed sharply.
  "You talk easy," he said. "A season family ticket costs one
hundred and fifty dollars."
  "I'll not argue with you," she replied with determination. "I want
the ticket and that's all there is to it."
  She had risen, and now walked angrily out of the room.
  "Well, you get it then," he said grimly, though in a modified tone
of voice.
  As usual, the table was one short that evening.
  The next morning he had cooled down considerably, and later the
ticket was duly secured, though it did not heal matters. He did not
mind giving his family a fair share of all that he earned, but he
did not like to be forced to provide against his will.
  "Did you know, mother," said Jessica another day, "the Spencers
are getting ready to go away?"
  "No. Where, I wonder?"
  "Europe," said Jessica. "I met Georgine yesterday and she told me.
She just put on more airs about it."
  "Did she say when?"
  "Monday, I think. They'll get a notice in the papers again- they
always do."
  "Never mind," said Mrs. Hurstwood consolingly, "we'll go one of
these days."
  Hurstwood moved his eyes over the paper slowly, but said nothing.
  "'We sail for Liverpool from New York,'" Jessica exclaimed,
mocking her acquaintance. "'Expect to spend most of the "summah" in
France,'- vain thing. As if it was anything to go to Europe."
  "It must be if you envy her so much," put in Hurstwood.
  It grated upon him to see the feeling his daughter displayed.
  "Don't worry over them, my dear," said Mrs. Hurstwood.
  "Did George get off?" asked Jessica of her mother another day,
thus revealing something that Hurstwood had heard nothing about.
  "Where has he gone?" he asked, looking up. He had never before
been kept in ignorance concerning departures.
  "He was going to Wheaton," said Jessica, not noticing the slight put
upon her father.
  "What's out there?" he asked, secretly irritated and chagrined to
think that he should be made to pump for information in this manner.
  "A tennis match," said Jessica.
  "He didn't say anything to me," Hurstwood concluded, finding it
difficult to refrain from a bitter tone.
  "I guess he must have forgotten," exclaimed his wife blandly.
  In the past he had always commanded a certain amount of respect,
which was a compound of appreciation and awe. The familiarity which in
part still existed between himself and his daughter he had courted. As
it was, it did not go beyond the light assumption of words. The tone
was always modest. Whatever had been, however, had lacked affection,
and now he saw that he was losing track of their doings. His knowledge
was no longer intimate. He sometimes saw them at table, and
sometimes did not. He heard of their doings occasionally, more often
not. Some days he found that he was all at sea as to what they were
talking about- things they had arranged to do or that they had done in
his absence. More affecting was the feeling that there were little
things going on of which he no longer heard. Jessica was beginning
to feel that her affairs were her own. George, Jr., flourished about
as if he were a man entirely and must needs have private matters.
All this Hurstwood could see, and it left a trace of feeling, for he
was used to being considered- in his official position, at least-
and felt that his importance should not begin to wane here. To
darken it all, he saw the same indifference and independence growing
in his wife, while he looked on and paid the bills.
  He consoled himself with the thought, however, that, after all, he
was not without affection. Things might go as they would at his house,
but he had Carrie outside of it. With his mind's eye he looked into
her comfortable room in Ogden Place, where he had spent several such
delightful evenings, and thought how charming it would be when
Drouet was disposed of entirely and she was waiting evenings in
cosey little quarters for him. That no cause would come up whereby
Drouet would be led to inform Carrie concerning his married state,
he felt hopeful. Things were going so smoothly that he believed they
would not change. Shortly now he would persuade Carrie and all would
be satisfactory.
  The day after their theatre visit he began writing her regularly-
a letter every morning, and begging her to do as much for him. He
was not literary by any means, but experience of the world and his
growing affection gave him somewhat of a style. This he exercised at
his office desk with perfect deliberation. He purchased a box of
delicately coloured and scented writing paper in monogram, which he
kept locked in one of the drawers. His friends now wondered at the
cleric and very official-looking nature of his position. The five
bartenders viewed with respect the duties which could call a man to do
so much desk-work and penmanship.
  Hurstwood surprised himself with his fluency. By the natural law
which governs all effort, what he wrote reacted upon him. He began
to feel those subtleties which he could find words to express. With
every expression came increased conception. Those inmost breathings
which there found words took bold upon him. He thought Carrie worthy
of all the affection he could there express.
  Carrie was indeed worth loving if ever youth and grace are to
command that token of acknowledgment from life in their bloom.
Experience had not yet taken away that freshness of the spirit which
is the charm of the body. Her soft eyes contained in their liquid
lustre no suggestion of the knowledge of disappointment. She had
been troubled in a way by doubt and longing, but these had made no
deeper impression than could be traced in a certain open wistfulness
of glance and speech. The mouth had the expression at times, in
talking and in repose, of one who might be upon the verge of tears. It
was not that grief was thus ever present. The pronunciation of certain
syllables gave to her lips this peculiarity of formation- a
formation as suggestive and moving as pathos itself.
  There was nothing bold in her manner. Life had not taught her
domination- superciliousness of grace, which is the lordly power of
some women. Her longing for consideration was not sufficiently
powerful to move her to demand it. Even now she lacked self-assurance,
but there was that in what she had already experienced which left
her a little less than timid. She wanted pleasure, she wanted
position, and yet she was confused as to what these things might be.
Every hour the kaleidoscope of human affairs threw a new lustre upon
something, and therewith it became for her the desired- the all.
Another shift of the box, and some other had become the beautiful, the
perfect.
  On her spiritual side, also, she was rich in feeling, as such a
nature well might be. Sorrow in her was aroused by many a spectacle-
an uncritical upwelling of grief for the weak and the helpless. She
was constantly pained by the sight of the white-faced, ragged men
who slopped desperately by her in a sort of wretched mental stupor.
The poorly clad girls who went blowing by her window evenings,
hurrying home from some of the shops of the West Side, she pitied from
the depths of her heart. She would stand and bite her lips as they
passed, shaking her little head and wondering. They had so little, she
thought. It was so sad to be ragged and poor. The hang of faded
clothes pained her eyes.
  "And they have to work so hard!" was her only comment.
  On the street sometimes she would see men working- Irishmen with
picks, coal-heavers with great loads to shovel, Americans busy about
some work which was a mere matter of strength- and they touched her
fancy. Toil, now that she was free of it, seemed even a more
desolate thing than when she was part of it. She saw it through a mist
of fancy- a pale, sombre half-light, which was the essence of poetic
feeling. Her old father, in his flour-dusted miller's suit,
sometimes returned to her in memory, revived by a face in a window.
A shoemaker pegging at his last, a blastman seen through a narrow
window in some basement where iron was being melted, a bench-worker
seen high aloft in some window, his coat off, his sleeves rolled up;
these took her back in fancy to the details of the mill. She felt,
though she seldom expressed them, sad thoughts upon this score. Her
sympathies were ever with that under-world of toil from which she
had so recently sprung, and which she best understood.
  Though Hurstwood did not know it, he was dealing with one whose
feelings were as tender and as delicate as this. He did not know,
but it was this in her, after all, which attracted him. He never
attempted to analyse the nature of his affection. It was sufficient
that there was tenderness in her eye, weakness in her manner,
good-nature and hope, in her thoughts. He drew near this lily, which
had sucked its waxen beauty and perfume from below a depth of waters
which he had never penetrated, and out of ooze and mould which he
could not understand. He drew near because it was waxen and fresh.
It lightened his feelings for him. It made the morning worth while.
  In a material way, she was considerably improved. Her awkwardness
had all but passed, leaving, if anything, a quaint residue which was
as pleasing as perfect grace. Her little shoes now fitted her
smartly and had high heels. She had learned much about laces and those
little neck-pieces which add so much to a woman's appearance. Her form
had filled out until it was admirably plump and well-rounded.
  Hurstwood wrote her one morning, asking her to meet him in Jefferson
Park, Monroe Street. He did not consider it policy to call any more,
even when Drouet was at home.
  The next afternoon he was in the pretty little park by one, and
had found a rustic bench beneath the green leaves of a lilac bush
which bordered one of the paths. It was at that season of the year
when the fulness of spring had not yet worn quite away. At a little
pond near by some cleanly dressed children were sailing white canvas
boats. In the shade of a green pagoda a bebuttoned officer of the
law was resting, his arms folded, his club at rest in his belt. An old
gardener was upon the lawn, with a pair of pruning shears, looking
after some bushes. High overhead was the clear blue sky of the new
summer, and in the thickness of the shiny green leaves of the trees
hopped and twittered the busy sparrows.
  Hurstwood had come out of his own home that morning feeling much
of the same old annoyance. At his store he had idled, there being no
need to write. He had come away to this place with the lightness of
heart which characterises those who put weariness behind. Now, in
the shade of this cool, green bush, he looked about him with the fancy
of the lover. He heard the carts go lumbering by upon the neighbouring
streets, but they were far off, and only buzzed upon his ear. The
hum of the surrounding city was faint, the clang of an occasional bell
was as music. He looked and dreamed a new dream of pleasure which
concerned his present fixed condition not at all. He got back in fancy
to the old Hurstwood, who was neither married nor fixed in a solid
position for life. He remembered the light spirit in which he once
looked after the girls- how he had danced, escorted them home, hung
over their gates. He almost wished he was back there again- here in
this pleasant scene he felt as if he were wholly free.
  At two Carrie came tripping along the walk toward him, rosy and
clean. She had just recently donned a sailor hat for the season with a
hand of pretty white-dotted blue silk. Her skirt was of a rich blue
material, and her shirt waist matched it, with a thin stripe of blue
upon a snow-white ground- stripes that were as fine as hairs. Her
brown shoes peeped occasionally from beneath her skirt. She carried
her gloves in her hand.
  Hurstwood looked up at her with delight.
  "You came, dearest," he said eagerly, standing to meet her and
taking her hand.
  "Of course," she said, smiling; "did you think I wouldn't?"
  "I didn't know," he replied.
  He looked at her forehead, which was moist from her brisk walk. Then
he took out one of his own soft, scented silk handkerchiefs and
touched her face here and there.
  "Now," he said affectionately, "you're all right."
  They were happy in being near one another- in looking into each
other's eyes. Finally, when the long flush of delight had subsided, he
said:
  "When is Charlie going away again?"
  "I don't know," she answered. "He says he has some things to do
for the house here now."
  Hurstwood grew serious, and he lapsed into quiet thought. He
looked up after a time to say:
  "Come away and leave him."
  He turned his eyes to the boys with the boats, as if the request
were of little importance.
  "Where would we go?" she asked in much the same manner, rolling
her gloves, and looking into a neighbouring tree.
  "Where do you want to go?" he enquired.
  There was something in the tone in which he said this which made her
feel as if she must record her feelings against any local habitation.
  "We can't stay in Chicago," she replied.
  He had no thought that this was in her mind- that any removal
would be suggested.
  "Why not?" he asked softly.
  "Oh, because," she said, "I wouldn't want to."
  He listened to this, with but dull perception of what it meant. It
had no serious ring to it. The question was not up for immediate
decision.
  "I would have to give up my position," he said.
  The tone he used made it seem as if the matter deserved only
slight consideration. Carrie thought a little, the while enjoying
the pretty scene.
  "I wouldn't like to live in Chicago and him here," she said,
thinking of Drouet.
  "It's a big town, dearest," Hurstwood answered. "It would be as good
as moving to another part of the country to move to the South Side."
  He had fixed upon that region as an objective point.
  "Anyhow," said Carrie, "I shouldn't want to get married as long as
he is here. I wouldn't want to run away."
  The suggestion of marriage struck Hurstwood forcibly. He saw clearly
that this was her idea- he felt that it was not to be gotten over
easily. Bigamy lightened the horizon of his shadowy thoughts for a
moment. He wondered for the life of him how it would all come out.
He could not see that he was making any progress save in her regard.
When he looked at her now, he thought her beautiful. What a thing it
was to have her love him, even if it be entangling! She increased
in, value in his eyes because of her objection. She was something to
struggle for, and that was everything. How different from the women
who yielded willingly! He swept the thought of them from his mind.
  "And you don't know when he'll go away?" asked Hurstwood, quietly.
  She shook her head.
  He sighed.
  "You're a determined little miss, aren't you?" he said, after a
few moments, looking up into her eyes.
  She felt a wave of feeling sweep over her at this. It was pride at
what seemed his admiration- affection for the man who could feel
this concerning her.
  "No," she said coyly, "but what can I do?"
  Again he folded his hands and looked away over the lawn into the
street.
  "I wish," he said pathetically, "you would come to me. I don't
like to be away from you this way. What good is there in waiting?
You're not any happier, are you?"
  "Happier!" she exclaimed softly, "you know better than that."
  "Here we are then," he went on in the same tone, "wasting our
days. If you are not happy, do you think I am? I sit and write to
you the biggest part of the time. I'll tell you what, Carrie," he
exclaimed, throwing sudden force of expression into his voice and
fixing her with his eyes, "I can't live without you, and that's all
there is to it. Now," he concluded, showing the palm of one of his
white hands in a sort of at-an-end, helpless expression, "what shall I
do?"
  This shifting of the burden to her appealed to Carrie. The semblance
of the load without the weight touched the woman's heart.
  "Can't you wait a little while yet?" she said tenderly. "I'll try
and find out when he's going."
  "What good will it do?" he asked, holding the same strain of
feeling.
  "Well, perhaps we can arrange to go somewhere."
  She really did not see anything clearer than before, but she was
getting into that frame of mind where, out of sympathy, a woman
yields.
  Hurstwood did not understand. He was wondering how she was to be
persuaded- what appeal would move her to forsake Drouet. He began to
wonder how far her affection for him would carry her. He was
thinking of some question which would make her tell.
  Finally he hit upon one of those problematical propositions which
often disguise our own desires while leading us to an understanding of
the difficulties which others make for us, and so discover for us a
way. It had not the slightest connection with anything intended on his
part, and was spoken at random before he had given it a moment's
serious thought.
  "Carrie," he said, looking into her face and assuming a serious look
which he did not feel, "suppose I were to come to you next week, or
this week for that matter- tonight say- and tell you I had to go away-
that I couldn't stay another minute and wasn't coming back any more-
would you come with me?"
  His sweetheart viewed him with the most affectionate glance, her
answer ready before the words were out of his mouth.
  "Yes," she said.
  "You wouldn't stop to argue or arrange?"
  "Not if you couldn't wait."
  He smiled when he saw that she took him seriously, and he thought
what a chance it would afford for a possible junket of a week or
two. He had a notion to tell her that he was joking and so brush
away her sweet seriousness, but the effect of it was too delightful.
He let it stand.
  "Suppose we didn't have time to get married here?" he added, an
afterthought striking him.
  "If we got married as soon as we got to the other end of the journey
it would be all right."
  "I meant that," he said.
  "Yes."
  The morning seemed peculiarly bright to him now. He wondered
whatever could have put such a thought into his head. Impossible as it
was, he could not help smiling at its cleverness. It showed how she
loved him. There was no doubt in his mind now, and he would find a way
to win her.
  "Well," he said, jokingly, "I'll come and get you one of these
evenings," and then he laughed.
  "I wouldn't stay with you, though, if you didn't marry me," Carrie
added reflectively.
  "I don't want you to," he said tenderly, taking her hand.
  She was extremely happy now that she understood. She loved him the
more for thinking that he would rescue her so. As for him, the
marriage clause did not dwell in his mind. He was thinking that with
such affection there could be no bar to his eventual happiness.
  "Let's stroll about," he said gayly, rising and surveying all the
lovely park.
  "All right," said Carrie.
  They passed the young Irishman, who looked after them with envious
eyes.
  "'Tis a foine couple," he observed to himself. "They must be rich."
                       Chapter XVI.
         A WITLESS ALADDIN: THE GATE TO THE WORLD

  In the course of his present stay in Chicago, Drouet paid some
slight attention to the secret order to which he belonged. During
his last trip he had received a new light on its importance.
  "I tell you," said another drummer to him, "it's a great thing. Look
at Hazenstab. He isn't so deuced clever. Of course he's got a good
house behind him, but that won't do alone. I tell you it's his degree.
He's a way-up Mason, and that goes a long way. He's got a secret
sign that stands for something."
  Drouet resolved then and there that he would take more interest in
such matters. So when he got back to Chicago he repaired to his
local lodge headquarters.
  "I say, Drouet," said Mr. Harry Quincel, an individual who was
very prominent in this local branch of the Elks, "you're the man
that can help us out."
  It was after the business meeting and things were going socially
with a hum. Drouet was bobbing around chatting and joking with a score
of individuals whom he knew.
  "What are you up to?" he inquired genially, turning a smiling face
upon his secret brother.
  "We're trying to get up some theatricals for two weeks from
to-day, and we want to know if you don't know some young lady who
could take a part- it's an easy part."
  "Sure," said Drouet, "what is it?" He did not trouble to remember
that he knew no one to whom he could appeal on this score. His
innate good-nature, however, dictated a favourable reply.
  "Well, now, I'll tell you what we are trying to do," went on Mr.
Quincel. "We are trying to get a new set of furniture for the lodge.
There isn't enough money in the treasury at the present time, and we
thought we would raise it by a little entertainment."
  "Sure," interrupted Drouet, "that's a good idea."
  "Several of the boys around here have got talent. There's Harry
Burbeck, he does a fine black-face turn. Mac Lewis is all right at
heavy dramatics. Did you ever hear him recite 'Over the Hills'?"
  "Never did."
  "Well, I tell you, he does it fine."
  "And you want me to get some woman to take a part?" questioned
Drouet, anxious to terminate the subject and get on to something else.
"What are you going to play?"
  "'Under the Gaslight,'" said Mr. Quincel, mentioning Augustin Daly's
famous production, which had worn from a great public success down
to an amateur theatrical favourite, with many of the troublesome
accessories cut out and the dramatis personae reduced to the
smallest possible number.
  Drouet had seen this play some time in the past.
  "That's it," he said; "that's a fine play. It will go all right. You
ought to make a lot of money out of that."
  "We think we'll do very well," Mr. Quincel replied. "Don't you
forget now," he concluded, Drouet showing signs of restlessness; "some
young woman to take the part of Laura."
  "Sure, I'll attend to it."
  He moved away, forgetting almost all about it the moment Mr. Quincel
had ceased talking. He had not even thought to ask the time or place.
  Drouet was reminded of his promise a day or two later by the receipt
of a letter announcing that the first rehearsal was set for the
following Friday evening, and urging him to kindly forward the young
lady's address at once, in order that the part might be delivered to
her.
  "Now, who the deuce do I know?" asked the drummer reflectively,
scratching his rosy ear. "I don't know any one that knows anything
about amateur theatricals."
  He went over in memory the names of a number of women he knew, and
finally fixed on one, largely because of the convenient location of
her home on the West Side, and promised himself that as he came out
that evening he would see her. When, however, he started west on the
car he forgot, and was only reminded of his delinquency by an item
in the "Evening News"- a small three-line affair under the head of
Secret Society Notes- which stated the Custer Lodge of the Order of
Elks would give a theatrical performance in Avery Hall on the 16th,
when "Under the Gaslight" would be produced.
  "George!" exclaimed Drouet, "I forgot that."
  "What?" inquired Carrie.
  They were at their little table in the room which might have been
used for a kitchen, where Carrie occasionally served a meal.
To-night the fancy had caught her, and the little table was spread
with a pleasing repast.
  "Why, my lodge entertainment. They're going to give a play, and they
wanted me to get them some young lady to take a part."
  "What is it they're going to play?"
  "'Under the Gaslight.'"
  "When?"
  "On the 16th."
  "Well, why don't you?" asked Carrie.
  "I don't know any one," he replied.
  Suddenly he looked up.
  "Say," he said, "how would you like to take the part?"
  "Me?" said Carrie. "I can't act."
  "How do you know?" questioned Drouet reflectively.
  "Because," answered Carrie, "I never did."
  Nevertheless, she was pleased to think he would ask. Her eyes
brightened, for if there was anything that enlisted her sympathies
it was the art of the stage.
  True to his nature, Drouet clung to this idea as an easy way out.
  "That's nothing. You can act all you have to down there."
  "No, I can't," said Carrie weakly, very much drawn toward the
proposition and yet fearful.
  "Yes, you can. Now, why don't you do it? They need some one, and
it will be lots of fun for you."
  "Oh, no, it won't," said Carrie seriously.
  "You'd like that. I know you would. I've seen you dancing around
here and giving imitations and that's why I asked you. You're clever
enough, all right."
  "No, I'm not," said Carrie shyly.
  "Now, I'll tell you what you do. You go down and see about it. It'll
be fun for you. The rest of the company isn't going to be any good.
They haven't any experience. What do they know about theatricals?"
  He frowned as he thought of their ignorance.
  "Hand me the coffee," he added.
  "I don't believe I could act, Charlie," Carrie went on pettishly.
"You don't think I could, do you?"
  "Sure. Out o' sight. I bet you make a hit. Now you want to go, I
know you do. I knew it when I came home. That's why I asked you."
  "What is the play, did you say?"
  "'Under the Gaslight.'"
  "What part would they want me to take?"
  "Oh, one of the heroines- I don't know."
  "What sort of a play is it?"
  "Well," said Drouet, whose memory for such things was not the
best, "it's about a girl who gets kidnapped by a couple of crooks- a
man and a woman that live in the slums. She had some money or
something and they wanted to get it. I don't know now how it did go
exactly."
  "Don't you know what part I would have to take?"
  "No, I don't, to tell the truth." He thought a moment. "Yes, I do,
too. Laura, that's the thing- you're to be Laura."
  "And you can't remember what the part is like?"
  "To save me, Cad, I can't," he answered. "I ought to, too; I've seen
the play enough. There's a girl in it that was stolen when she was
an infant- was picked off the street or something- and she's the one
that's hounded by the two old criminals I was telling you about." He
stopped with a mouthful of pie poised on a fork before his face.
"She comes very near getting drowned- no, that's not it. I'll tell you
what I'll do," he concluded hopelessly, "I'll get you the book. I
can't remember now for the life of me."
  "Well, I don't know," said Carrie, when he had concluded, her
interest and desire to shine dramatically struggling with her timidity
for the mastery. "I might go if you thought I'd do all right."
  "Of course, you'll do," said Drouet, who, in his efforts to
enthuse Carrie, had interested himself. "Do you think I'd come home
here and urge you to do something that I didn't think you would make a
success of? You can act all right. It'll be good for you."
  "When must I go?" said Carrie, reflectively.
  "The first rehearsal is Friday night. I'll get the part for you
to-night."
  "All right," said Carrie resignedly, "I'll do it, but if I make a
failure now it's your fault."
  "You won't fail," assured Drouet. "Just act as you do around here.
Be natural. You're all right. I've often thought you'd make a
corking good actress."
  "Did you really?" asked Carrie.
  "That's right," said the drummer.
  He little knew as he went out of the door that night what a secret
flame he had kindled in the bosom of the girl he left behind. Carrie
was possessed of that sympathetic, impressionable nature which, ever
in the most developed form, has been the glory of the drama. She was
created with that passivity of soul which is always the mirror of
the active world. She possessed an innate taste for imitation and no
small ability. Even without practice, she could sometimes restore
dramatic situations she had witnessed by re-creating, before her
mirror, the expressions of the various faces taking part in the scene.
She loved to modulate her voice after the conventional manner of the
distressed heroine, and repeat such pathetic fragments as appealed
most to her sympathies. Of late, seeing the airy grace of the
ingenue in several well-constructed plays, she had been moved to
secretly imitate it, and many were the little movements and
expressions of the body in which she indulged from time to time in the
privacy of her chamber. On several occasions, when Drouet had caught
her admiring herself, as he imagined, in the mirror, she was doing
nothing more than recalling some little grace of the mouth or the eyes
which she had witnessed in another. Under his airy accusation she
mistook this for vanity and accepted the blame with a faint sense of
error, though, as a matter of fact, it was nothing more than the first
subtle outcroppings of an artistic nature, endeavouring to re-create
the perfect likeness of some phase of beauty which appealed to her. In
such feeble tendencies, be it known, such outworking of desire to
reproduce life, lies the basis of all dramatic art.
  Now, when Carrie heard Drouet's laudatory opinion of her dramatic
ability, her body tingled with satisfaction. Like the flame which
welds the loosened particles into a solid mass, his words united those
floating wisps of feeling which she had felt, but never believed,
concerning her possible ability, and made them into a gaudy shred of
hope. Like all human beings, she had a touch of vanity. She felt
that she could do things if she only had a chance. How often had she
looked at the well-dressed actresses on the stage and wondered how she
would look, how delightful she would feel if only she were in their
place. The glamour, the tense situation, the fine clothes, the
applause, these had lured her until she felt that she, too, could act-
that she, too, could compel acknowledgment of power. Now she was
told that she really could- that little things she had done about
the house had made even him feel her power. It was a delightful
sensation while it lasted.
  When Drouet was gone, she sat down in her rocking-chair by the
window to think about it. As usual, imagination exaggerated the
possibilities for her. It was as if he had put fifty cents in her hand
and she had exercised the thoughts of a thousand dollars. She saw
herself in a score of pathetic situations in which she assumed a
tremulous voice and suffering manner. Her mind delighted itself with
scenes of luxury and refinement, situations in which she was the
cynosure of all eyes, the arbiter of all fates. As she rocked to and
fro she felt the tensity of woe in abandonment, the magnificence of
wrath after deception, the languour of sorrow after defeat. Thoughts
of all the charming women she had seen in plays- every fancy, every
illusion which she had concerning the stage- now came back as a
returning tide after the ebb. She built up feelings and a
determination which the occasion did not warrant.
  Drouet dropped in at the lodge when he went down town, and swashed
around with a great air, as Quincel met him.
  "Where is that young lady you were going to get for us?" asked the
latter.
  "I've got her," said Drouet.
  "Have you?" said Quincel, rather surprised by his promptness;
"that's good. What's her address?" and he pulled out his note-book
in order to be able to send her part to her.
  "You want to send her her part?" asked the drummer.
  "Yes."
  "Well, I'll take it. I'm going right by her house in the morning."
  "What did you say her address was? We only want it in case we have
any information to send her."
  "Twenty-nine Ogden Place."
  "And her name?"
  "Carrie Madenda," said the drummer, firing at random. The lodge
members knew him to be single.
  "That sounds like somebody that can act, doesn't it?" said Quincel.
  "Yes, it does."
  He took the part home to Carrie and handed it to her with the manner
of one who does a favour.
  "He says that's the best part. Do you think you can do it?"
  "I don't know until I look it over. You know I'm afraid, now that
I've said I would."
  "Oh, go on. What have you got to be afraid of? It's a cheap company.
The rest of them aren't as good as you are."
  "Well, I'll see," said Carrie, pleased to have the part, for all her
misgivings.
  He sidled around, dressing and fidgeting before he arranged to
make his next remark.
  "They were getting ready to print the programmes," he said, "and I
gave them the name of Carrie Madenda. Was that all right?"
  "Yes, I guess so," said his companion, looking up at him. She was
thinking it was slightly strange.
  "If you didn't make a hit, you know," he went on.
  "Oh, yes," she answered, rather pleased now with his caution. It was
clever for Drouet.
  "I didn't want to introduce you as my wife, because you'd feel worse
then if you didn't go. They all know me so well. But you'll go all
right. Anyhow, you'll probably never meet any of them again."
  "Oh, I don't care," said Carrie desperately. She was determined
now to have a try at the fascinating game.
  Drouet breathed a sigh of relief. He had been afraid that he was
about to precipitate another conversation upon the marriage question.
  The part of Laura, as Carrie found out when she began to examine it,
was one of suffering and tears. As delineated by Mr. Daly, it was true
to the most sacred traditions of melodrama as he found it when he
began his career. The sorrowful demeanour, the tremolo music, the
long, explanatory, cumulative addresses, all were there.
  "Poor fellow," read Carrie, consulting the text and drawing her
voice out pathetically. "Martin, be sure and give him a glass of
wine before he goes."
  She was surprised at the briefness of the entire part, not knowing
that she must be on the stage while others were talking, and not
only be there, but also keep herself in harmony with the dramatic
movement of the scenes.
  "I think I can do that, though," she concluded.
  When Drouet came the next night, she was very much satisfied with
her day's study.
  "Well, how goes it, Caddie?" he said.
  "All right," she laughed. "I think I have it memorised nearly."
  "That's good," he said. "Let's hear some of it."
  "Oh, I don't know whether I can get up and say it off here," she
said bashfully.
  "Well, I don't know why you shouldn't. It'll be easier here than
it will there."
  "I don't know about that," she answered.
  Eventually she took off the ball-room episode with considerable
feeling, forgetting, as she got deeper in the scene, all about Drouet,
and letting herself rise to a fine state of feeling.
  "Good," said Drouet; "fine; out o' sight! You're all right,
Caddie, I tell you."
  He was really moved by her excellent representation and the
general appearance of the pathetic little figure as it swayed and
finally fainted to the floor. He had bounded up to catch her, and
now held her laughing in his arms.
  "Ain't you afraid you'll hurt yourself?" he asked.
  "Not a bit."
  "Well, you're a wonder. Say, I never knew you could do anything like
that."
  "I never did, either," said Carrie merrily, her face flushed with
delight.
  "Well, you can bet that you're all right," said Drouet. "You can
take my word for that. You won't fail."
                       Chapter XVII.
      A GLIMPSE THROUGH THE GATEWAY: HOPE LIGHTENS THE EYE

  The, to Carrie, very important theatrical performance was to take
place at the Avery on conditions which were to make it more noteworthy
than was at first anticipated. The little dramatic student had written
to Hurstwood the very morning her part was brought her that she was
going to take part in a play.
  "I really am," she wrote, feeling that he might take it as a jest;
"I have my part now, honest, truly."
  Hurstwood smiled in an indulgent way as he read this.
  "I wonder what it is going to be? I must see that."
  He answered at once, making a pleasant reference to her ability.
"I haven't the slightest doubt you will make a success. You must
come to the park to-morrow morning and tell me all about it."
  Carrie gladly complied, and revealed all the details of the
undertaking as she understood it.
  "Well," he said, "that's fine. I'm glad to hear it. Of course, you
will do well, you're so clever."
  He had truly never seen so much spirit in the girl before. Her
tendency to discover a touch of sadness had for the nonce disappeared.
As she spoke her eyes were bright, her cheeks red. She radiated much
of the pleasure which her undertakings gave her. For all her
misgivings- and they were as plentiful as the moments of the day-
she was still happy. She could not repress her delight in doing this
little thing which, to an ordinary observer, had no importance at all.
  Hurstwood was charmed by the development of the fact that the girl
had capabilities. There is nothing so inspiring in life as the sight
of a legitimate ambition, no matter how incipient. It gives colour,
force, and beauty to the possessor.
  Carrie was now lightened by a touch of this divine afflatus. She
drew to herself commendation from her two admirers which she had not
earned. Their affection for her naturally heightened their
perception of what she was trying to do and their approval of what she
did. Her inexperience conserved her own exuberant fancy, which ran
riot with every straw of opportunity, making of it a golden divining
rod whereby the treasure of life was to be discovered.
  "Let's see," said Hurstwood, "I ought to know some of the boys in
the lodge. I'm an Elk myself."
  "Oh, you mustn't let him know I told you."
  "That's so," said the manager.
  "I'd like for you to be there, if you want to come, but I don't
see how you can unless he asks you."
  "I'll be there," said Hurstwood affectionately. "I can fix it so
he won't know you told me. You leave it to me."
  This interest of the manager was a large thing in itself for the
performance, for his standing among the Elks was something worth
talking about. Already he was thinking of a box with some friends, and
flowers for Carrie. He would make it a dress-suit affair and give
the little girl a chance.
  Within a day or two, Drouet dropped into the Adams Street resort,
and he was at once spied by Hurstwood. It was at five in the afternoon
and the place was crowded with merchants, actors, managers,
politicians, a goodly company of rotund, rosy figures, silk-hatted,
starchy-bosomed, beringed and bescarfpinned to the queen's taste. John
L. Sullivan, the pugilist, was at one end of the glittering bar,
surrounded by a company of loudly dressed sports, who were holding a
most animated conversation. Drouet came across the floor with a
festive stride, a new pair of tan shoes squeaking audibly at his
progress.
  "Well, sir," said Hurstwood, "I was wondering what had become of
you. I thought you had gone out of town again."
  Drouet laughed.
  "If you don't report more regularly we'll have to cut you off the
list."
  "Couldn't help it," said the drummer, "I've been busy."
  They strolled over toward the bar amid the noisy, shifting company
of notables. The dressy manager was shaken by the hand three times
in as many minutes.
  "I hear your lodge is going to give a performance," observed
Hurstwood, in the most offhand manner.
  "Yes, who told you?"
  "No one," said Hurstwood. "They just sent me a couple of tickets,
which I can have for two dollars. Is it going to be any good?"
  "I don't know," replied the drummer. "They've been trying to get
me to get some woman to take a part."
  "I wasn't intending to go," said the manager easily. "I'll
subscribe, of course. How are things over there?"
  "All right. They're going to fit things up out of the proceeds."
  "Well," said the manager, "I hope they make a success of it. Have
another?"
  He did not intend to say any more. Now, if he should appear on the
scene with a few friends, he could say that he had been urged to
come along. Drouet had a desire to wipe out the possibility of
confusion.
  "I think the girl is going to take a part in it," he said
abruptly, after thinking it over.
  "You don't say so! How did that happen?"
  "Well, they were short and wanted me to find them some one. I told
Carrie, and she seems to want to try."
  "Good for her," said the manager. "It'll be a real nice affair. Do
her good, too. Has she ever had any experience?"
  "Not a bit."
  "Oh, well, it isn't anything very serious."
  "She's clever, though," said Drouet, casting off any imputation
against Carrie's ability. "She picks up her part quick enough."
  "You don't say so!" said the manager.
  "Yes, sir; she surprised me the other night. By George, if she
didn't."
  "We must give her a nice little send-off," said the manager. "I'll
look after the flowers."
  Drouet smiled at his good-nature.
  "After the show you must come with me and we'll have a little
supper."
  "I think she'll do all right," said Drouet.
  "I want to see her. She's got to do all right. We'll make her,"
and the manager gave one of his quick, steely half-smiles, which was a
compound of good-nature and shrewdness.
  Carrie, meanwhile, attended the first rehearsal. At this performance
Mr. Quincel presided, aided by Mr. Millice, a young man who had some
qualifications of past experience, which were not exactly understood
by any one. He was so experienced and so business-like, however,
that he came very near being rude- failing to remember, as he did,
that the individuals he was trying to instruct were volunteer
players and not salaried underlings.
  "Now, Miss Madenda," he said, addressing Carrie, who stood in one
part uncertain as to what move to make, "you don't want to stand
like that. Put expression in your face. Remember, you are troubled
over the intrusion of the stranger. Walk so," and he struck out across
the Avery stage in a most drooping manner.
  Carrie did not exactly fancy the suggestion, but the novelty of
the situation, the presence of strangers, all more or less nervous,
and the desire to do anything rather than make a failure, made her
timid. She walked in imitation of her mentor as requested, inwardly
feeling that there was something strangely lacking.
  "Now, Mrs. Morgan," said the director to one young married woman who
was to take the part of Pearl, "you sit here. Now, Mr. Bamberger,
you stand here, so. Now, what is it you say?"
  "Explain," said Mr. Bamberger feebly. He had the part of Ray,
Laura's lover, the society individual who was to waver in his thoughts
of marrying her, upon finding that she was a waif and a nobody by
birth.
  "How is that- what does your text say?"
  "Explain," repeated Mr. Bamberger, looking intently at his part.
  "Yes, but it also says," the director remarked, "that you are to
look shocked. Now, say it again, and see if you can't look shocked."
  "Explain!" demanded Mr. Bamberger vigorously.
  "No, no, that won't do! Say it this way- explain."
  "Explain," said Mr. Bamberger, giving a modified imitation.
  "That's better. Now go on."
  "One night," resumed Mrs. Morgan, whose lines came next, "father and
mother were going to the opera. When they were crossing Broadway,
the usual crowd of children accosted them for alms-"
  "Hold on," said the director, rushing forward, his arm extended.
"Put more feeling into what you are saying."
  Mrs. Morgan looked at him as if she feared a personal assault. Her
eye lightened with resentment.
  "Remember, Mrs. Morgan," he added, ignoring the gleam, but modifying
his manner, "that you're detailing a pathetic story. You are now
supposed to be telling something that is a grief to you. It requires
feeling, repression, thus: 'The usual crowd of children accosted
them for alms.'"
  "All right," said Mrs. Morgan.
  "Now, go on."
  "As mother felt in her pocket for some change, her fingers touched a
cold and trembling hand which had clutched her purse."
  "Very good," interrupted the director, nodding his head
significantly.
  "A pickpocket! Well!" exclaimed Mr. Bamberger, speaking the lines
that here fell to him.
  "No, no, Mr. Bamberger," said the director, approaching, "not that
way. 'A pickpocket- well?' so. That's the idea."
  "Don't you think," said Carrie weakly, noticing that it had not been
proved yet whether the members of the company knew their lines, let
alone the details of expression, "that it would be better if we just
went through our lines once to see if we know them? We might pick up
some points."
  "A very good idea, Miss Madenda," said Mr. Quincel, who sat at the
side of the stage, looking serenely on and volunteering opinions which
the director did not heed.
  "All right," said the latter, somewhat abashed, "it might be well to
do it." Then brightening, with a show of authority, "Suppose we run
right through, putting in as much expression as we can."
  "Good," said Mr. Quincel.
  "This hand," resumed Mrs. Morgan, glancing up at Mr. Bamberger and
down at her book, as the lines proceeded, "my mother grasped in her
own, and so tight that a small, feeble voice uttered an exclamation of
pain. Mother looked down, and there beside her was a little ragged
girl."
  "Very good," observed the director, now hopelessly idle.
  "The thief!" exclaimed Mr. Bamberger.
  "Louder," put in the director, finding it almost impossible to
keep his hands off.
  "The thief!" roared poor Bamberger.
  "Yes, but a thief hardly six years old, with a face like an angel's.
'Stop,' said my mother. 'What are you doing?'
  "'Trying to steal,' said the child.
  "'Don't you know that it is wicked to do so?' asked my father.
  "'No,' said the girl, 'but it is dreadful to be hungry.'
  "'Who told you to steal?' asked my mother.
  "'She- there,' said the child, pointing to a squalid woman in a
doorway opposite, who fled suddenly down the street. 'That is old
Judas,' said the girl."
  Mrs. Morgan read this rather flatly, and the director was in
despair. He fidgeted around, and then went over to Mr. Quincel.
  "What do you think of them?" he asked.
  "Oh, I guess we'll be able to whip them into shape," said the
latter, with an air of strength under difficulties.
  "I don't know," said the director. "That fellow Bamberger strikes me
as being a pretty poor shift for a lover."
  "He's all we've got," said! Quincel, rolling up his eyes.
"Harrison went back on me at the last minute. Who else can we get?"
  "I don't know," said the director. "I'm afraid he'll never pick up."
  At this moment Bamberger was exclaiming, "Pearl, you are joking with
me."
  "Look at that now," said the director, whispering behind his hand.
"My Lord! what can you do with a man who drawls out a sentence like
that?"
  "Do the best you can," said Quincel consolingly.
  The rendition ran on in this wise until it came to where Carrie,
as Laura, comes into the room to explain to Ray, who, after hearing
Pearl's statement about her birth, had written the letter
repudiating her, which, however, he did not deliver. Bamberger was
just concluding the words of Ray, "I must go before she returns. Her
step! Too late," and was cramming the letter in his pocket, when she
began sweetly with:
  "Ray!"
  "Miss- Miss Courtland," Bamberger faltered weakly.
  Carrie looked at him a moment and forgot all about the company
present. She began to feel the part, and summoned an indifferent smile
to her lips, turning as the lines directed and going to a window, as
if he were not present. She did it with a grace which was
fascinating to look upon.
  "Who is that woman?" asked the director, watching Carrie in her
little scene with Bamberger.
  "Miss Madenda," said Quincel.
  "I know her name," said the director, "but what does she do?"
  "I don't know," said Quincel. "She's a friend of one of our
members."
  "Well, she's got more gumption than any one I've seen here so far-
seems to take an interest in what she's doing."
  "Pretty, too, isn't she?" said Quincel.
  The director strolled away without answering.
  In the second scene, where she was supposed to face the company in
the ball-room, she did even better, winning the smile of the director,
who volunteered, because of her fascination for him, to come over
and speak with her.
  "Were you ever on the stage?" he asked insinuatingly.
  "No," said Carrie.
  "You do so well, I thought you might have had some experience."
  Carrie only smiled consciously.
  He walked away to listen to Bamberger, who was feebly spouting
some ardent line.
  Mrs. Morgan saw the drift of things and gleamed at Carrie with
envious and snapping black eyes.
  "She's some cheap professional," she gave herself the satisfaction
of thinking, and scorned and hated her accordingly.
  The rehearsal ended for one day, and Carrie went home feeling that
she had acquitted herself satisfactorily. The words of the director
were ringing in her ears, and she longed for an opportunity to tell
Hurstwood. She wanted him to know just how well she was doing. Drouet,
too, was an object for her confidences. She could hardly wait until he
should ask her, and yet she did not have the vanity to bring it up.
The drummer, however, had another line of thought to-night, and her
little experience did not appeal to him as important. He let the
conversation drop, save for what she chose to recite without
solicitation, and Carrie was not good at that. He took it for
granted that she was doing very well and he was relieved of further
worry. Consequently he threw Carrie into repression, which was
irritating. She felt his indifference keenly and longed to see
Hurstwood. It was as if he were now the only friend she had on
earth. The next morning Drouet was interested again, but the damage
had been done.
  She got a pretty letter from the manager, saying that by the time
she got it he would be waiting for her in the park. When she came,
he shone upon her as the morning sun.
  "Well, my dear," he asked, "how did you come out?"
  "Well enough," she said, still somewhat reduced after Drouet.
  "Now, tell me just what you did. Was it pleasant?"
  Carrie related the incidents of the rehearsal, warming up as she
proceeded.
  "Well, that's delightful," said Hurstwood. "I'm so glad. I must
get over there to see you. When is the next rehearsal?"
  "Tuesday," said Carrie, "but they don't allow visitors."
  "I imagine I could get in," said Hurstwood significantly.
  She was completely restored and delighted by his consideration,
but she made him promise not to come around.
  "Now you must do your best to please me," he said encouragingly.
"Just remember that I want you to succeed. We will make the
performance worth while. You do that now."
  "I'll try," said Carrie, brimming with affection and enthusiasm.
  "That's the girl," said Hurstwood fondly. "Now, remember," shaking
an affectionate finger at her, "your best."
  "I will," she answered, looking back.
  The whole earth was brimming sunshine that morning. She tripped
along, the clear sky pouring liquid blue into her soul. Oh, blessed
are the children of endeavour in this, that they try and are
hopeful. And blessed also are they who, knowing, smile and approve.
                      Chapter XVIII.
         JUST OVER THE BORDER: A HAIL AND FAREWELL

  By the evening of the 16th the subtle hand of Hurstwood had made
itself apparent. He had given the word among his friends- and they
were many and influential- that here was something which they ought to
attend, and, as a consequence, the sale of tickets by Mr. Quincel,
acting for the lodge, had been large. Small four-line notes had
appeared in all of the daily newspapers. These he had arranged for
by the aid of one of his newspaper friends on the "Times," Mr. Harry
McGarren, the managing editor.
  "Say, Harry," Hurstwood said to him one evening, as the latter stood
at the bar drinking before wending his belated way homeward, "you
can help the boys out, I guess."
  "What is it?" said McGarren, pleased to be consulted by the
opulent manager.
  "The Custer Lodge is getting up a little entertainment for their own
good, and they'd like a little newspaper notice. You know what I mean-
a squib or two saying that it's going to take place."
  "Certainly," said McGarren, "I can fix that for you, George."
  At the same time Hurstwood kept himself wholly in the background.
The members of Custer Lodge could scarcely understand why their little
affair was taking so well. Mr. Harry Quincel was looked upon as
quite a star for this sort of work.
  By the time the 16th had arrived Hurstwood's friends had rallied
like Romans to a senator's call. A well-dressed, good-natured,
flatteringly-inclined audience was assured from the moment he
thought of assisting Carrie.
  That little student had mastered her part to her own satisfaction,
much as she trembled for her fate when she should once face the
gathered throng, behind the glare of the footlights. She tried to
console herself with the thought that a score of other persons, men
and women, were equally tremulous concerning the outcome of their
efforts, but she could not disassociate the general danger from her
own individual liability. She feared that she would forget her
lines, that she might be unable to master the feeling which she now
felt concerning her own movements in the play. At times she wished
that she had never gone into the affair; at others, she trembled
lest she should be paralysed with fear and stand white and gasping,
not knowing what to say and spoiling the entire performance.
  In the matter of the company, Mr. Bamberger had disappeared. That
hopeless example had fallen under the lance of the director's
criticism. Mrs. Morgan was still present, but envious and
determined, if for nothing more than spite, to do as well as Carrie at
least. A loafing professional had been called in to assume the role of
Ray, and, while he was a poor stick of his kind, he was not troubled
by any of those qualms which attack the spirit of those who have never
faced an audience. He swashed about (cautioned though he was to
maintain silence concerning his past theatrical relationships) in such
a self-confident manner that he was like to convince every one of
his identity by mere matter of circumstantial evidence.
  "It is so easy," he said to Mrs. Morgan, in the usual affected stage
voice. "An audience would be the last thing to trouble me. It's the
spirit of the part, you know, that is difficult."
  Carrie disliked his appearance, but she was too much the actress not
to swallow his qualities with complaisance, seeing that she must
suffer his fictitious love for the evening.
  At six she was ready to go. Theatrical paraphernalia had been
provided over and above her care. She had practised her make-up in the
morning, had rehearsed and arranged her material for the evening by
one o'clock, and had gone home to have a final look at her part,
waiting for the evening to come.
  On this occasion the lodge sent a carriage. Drouet rode with her
as far as the door, and then went about the neighbouring stores,
looking for some good cigars. The little actress marched nervously
into her dressing-room and began that painfully anticipated matter
of make-up which was to transform her, a simple maiden, to Laura,
The Belle of Society.
  The flare of the gas-jets, the open trunks, suggestive of travel and
display, the scattered contents of the make-up box- rouge, pearl
powder, whiting, burnt cork, India ink, pencils for the eyelids, wigs,
scissors, looking-glasses, drapery- in short, all the nameless
paraphernalia of disguise, have a remarkable atmosphere of their
own. Since her arrival in the city many things had influenced her, but
always in a far-removed manner. This new atmosphere was more friendly.
It was wholly unlike the great brilliant mansions which waved her
coldly away, permitting her only awe and distant wonder. This took her
by the hand kindly, as one who says, "My dear, come in." It opened for
her as if for its own. She had wondered at the greatness of the
names upon the bill-boards, the marvel of the long notices in the
papers, the beauty of the dresses upon the stage, the atmosphere of
carriages, flowers, refinement. Here was no illusion. Here was an open
door to see all of that. She had come upon it as one who stumbles upon
a secret passage, and, behold, she was in the chamber of diamonds
and delight!
  As she dressed with a flutter, in her little stage room, hearing the
voices outside, seeing Mr. Quincel hurrying here and there, noting
Mrs. Morgan and Mrs. Hoagland at their nervous work of preparation,
seeing all the twenty members of the cast moving about and worrying
over what the result would be, she could not help thinking what a
delight this would be if it would endure; how perfect a state, if
she could only do well now, and then some time get a place as a real
actress. The thought had taken a mighty hold upon her. It hummed in
her ears as the melody of an old song.
  Outside in the little lobby another scene was being enacted. Without
the interest of Hurstwood, the little hall would probably have been
comfortably filled, for the members of the lodge were moderately
interested in its welfare. Hurstwood's word, however, had gone the
rounds. It was to be a full-dress affair. The four boxes had been
taken. Dr. Norman McNeill Hale and his wife were to occupy one. This
was quite a card. C. R. Walker, drygoods merchant and possessor of
at least two hundred thousand dollars, had taken another; a well-known
coal merchant had been induced to take the third, and Hurstwood and
his friends the fourth. Among the latter was Drouet. The people who
were now pouring here were not celebrities, nor even local
notabilities, in a general sense. They were the lights of a certain
circle- the circle of small fortunes and secret order distinctions.
These gentlemen Elks knew the standing of one another. They had regard
for the ability which could amass a small fortune, own a nice home,
keep a barouche or carriage, perhaps, wear fine clothes, and
maintain a good mercantile position. Naturally, Hurstwood, who was a
little above the order of mind which accepted this standard as
perfect, who had shrewdness and much assumption of dignity, who held
an imposing and authoritative position, and commanded friendship by
intuitive tact in handling people, was quite a figure. He was more
generally known than most others in the same circle, and was looked
upon as some one whose reserve covered a mine of influence and solid
financial prosperity.
  To-night he was in his element. He came with several friends
directly from Rector's in a carriage. In the lobby he met Drouet,
who was just returning from a trip for more cigars. All five now
joined in an animated conversation concerning the company present
and the general drift of lodge affairs.
  "Who's here?" said Hurstwood, passing into the theatre proper, where
the lights were turned up and a company of gentlemen were laughing and
talking in the open space back of the seats.
  "Why, how do you do, Mr. Hurstwood?" came from the first
individual recognised.
  "Glad to see you," said the latter, grasping his hand lightly.
  "Looks quite an affair, doesn't it?"
  "Yes, indeed," said the manager.
  "Custer seems to have the backing of its members," observed the
friend.
  "So it should," said the knowing manager. "I'm glad to see it."
  "Well, George," said another rotund citizen, whose avoirdupois
made necessary an almost alarming display of starched shirt bosom,
"how goes it with you?"
  "Excellent," said the manager.
  "What brings you over here? You're not a member of Custer."
  "Good-nature," returned the manager. "Like to see the boys, you
know."
  "Wife here?"
  "She couldn't come to-night. She's not well."
  "Sorry to hear it- nothing serious, I hope."
  "No, just feeling a little ill."
  "I remember Mrs. Hurstwood when she was travelling once with you
over to St. Joe-" and here the newcomer launched off in a trivial
recollection, which was terminated by the arrival of more friends.
  "Why, George, how are you?" said another genial West Side politician
and lodge member. "My, but I'm glad to see you again; how are
things, anyhow?"
  "Very well; I see you got that nomination for alderman."
  "Yes, we whipped them out over there without much trouble."
  "What do you suppose Hennessy will do now?"
  "Oh, he'll go back to his brick business. He has a brick-yard, you
know."
  "I didn't know that," said the manager. "Felt pretty sore, I
suppose, over his defeat."
  "Perhaps," said the other, winking shrewdly.
  Some of the more favoured of his friends whom he had invited began
to roll up in carriages now. They came shuffling in with a great
show of finery and much evident feeling of content and importance.
  "Here we are," said Hurstwood, turning to one from a group with whom
he was talking.
  "That's right," returned the newcomer, a gentleman of about
forty-five.
  "And say," he whispered, jovially, pulling Hurstwood over by the
shoulder so that he might whisper in his ear, "if this isn't a good
show, I'll punch your head."
  "You ought to pay for seeing your old friends. Bother the show!"
  To another who inquired, "Is it something really good?" the
manager replied:
  "I don't know. I don't suppose so." Then, lifting his hand
graciously, "For the lodge."
  "Lots of boys out, eh?"
  "Yes, look up Shanahan. He was just asking for you a moment ago."
  It was thus that the little theatre resounded to a babble of
successful voices, the creak of fine clothes, the commonplace of
good-nature, and all largely because of this man's bidding. Look at
him any time within the half hour before the curtain was up, he was
a member of an eminent group- a rounded company of five or more
whose stout figures, large white bosoms, and shining pins bespoke
the character of their success. The gentlemen who brought their
wives called him out to shake hands. Seats clicked, ushers bowed while
he looked blandly on. He was evidently a light among them,
reflecting in his personality the ambitions of those who greeted
him. He was acknowledged, fawned upon, in a way lionised. Through it
all one could see the standing of the man. It was greatness in a
way, small as it was.
                       Chapter XIX.
           AN HOUR IN ELFLAND: A CLAMOUR HALF HEARD

  At last the curtain was ready to go up. All the details of the
make-up had been completed, and the company settled down as the leader
of the small, hired orchestra tapped significantly upon his music rack
with his baton and began the soft curtain-raising strain. Hurstwood
ceased talking, and went with Drouet and his friend Sagar Morrison
around to the box.
  "Now, we'll see how the little girl does," he said to Drouet, in a
tone which no one else could hear.
  On the stage, six of the characters had already appeared in the
opening parlour scene. Drouet and Hurstwood saw at a glance that
Carrie was not among them, and went on talking in a whisper. Mrs.
Morgan, Mrs. Hoagland, and the actor who had taken Bamberger's part
were representing the principal roles in this scene. The professional,
whose name was Patton, had little to recommend him outside of his
assurance, but this at the present moment was most palpably needed.
Mrs. Morgan, as Pearl, was stiff with fright. Mrs. Hoagland was
husky in the throat. The whole company was so weak-kneed that the
lines were merely spoken, and nothing more. It took all the hope and
uncritical good-nature of the audience to keep from manifesting pity
by that unrest which is the agony of failure.
  Hurstwood was perfectly indifferent. He took it for granted that
it would be worthless. All he cared for was to have it endurable
enough to allow for pretension and congratulation afterward.
  After the first rush of fright, however, the players got over the
danger of collapse. They rambled weakly forward, losing nearly all the
expression which was intended, and making the thing dull in the
extreme, when Carrie came in.
  One glance at her, and both Hurstwood and Drouet saw plainly that
she also was weak-kneed. She came faintly across the stage, saying:
  "And you, sir; we have been looking for you since eight o'clock,"
but with so little colour and in such a feeble voice that it was
positively painful.
  "She's frightened," whispered Drouet to Hurstwood.
  The manager made no answer.
  She had a line presently which was supposed to be funny.
  "Well, that's as much as to say that I'm a sort of life pill."
  It came out so flat, however, that it was a deathly thing. Drouet
fidgeted. Hurstwood moved his toe the least bit.
  There was another place in which Laura was to rise and, with a sense
of impending disaster, say, sadly:
  "I wish you hadn't said that, Pearl. You know the old proverb, 'Call
a maid by a married name.'"
  The lack of feeling in the thing was ridiculous. Carrie did not
get it at all. She seemed to be talking in her sleep. It looked as
if she were certain to be a wretched failure. She was more hopeless
than Mrs. Morgan, who had recovered somewhat, and was now saying her
lines clearly at least. Drouet looked away from the stage at the
audience. The latter held out silently, hoping for a general change,
of course. Hurstwood fixed his eye on Carrie, as if to hypnotise her
into doing better. He was pouring determination of his own in her
direction. He felt sorry for her.
  In a few more minutes it fell to her to read the letter sent in by
the strange villain. The audience had been slightly diverted by a
conversation between the professional actor and a character called
Snorky, impersonated by a short little American, who really
developed some humour as a half-crazed, one-armed soldier, turned
messenger for a living. He bawled his lines out with such defiance
that, while they really did not partake of the humour intended, they
were funny. Now he was off, however, and it was back to pathos, with
Carrie as the chief figure. She did not recover. She wandered
through the whole scene between herself and the intruding villain,
straining the patience of the audience, and finally exiting, much to
their relief.
  "She's too nervous," said Drouet, feeling in the mildness of the
remark that he was lying for once.
  "Better go back and say a word to her."
  Drouet was glad to do anything for relief. He fairly hustled
around to the side entrance, and was let in by the friendly
door-keeper. Carrie was standing in the wings, weakly waiting her next
cue, all the snap and nerve gone out of her.
  "Say, Cad," he said, looking at her, "you mustn't be nervous. Wake
up. Those guys out there don't amount to anything. What are you afraid
of?"
  "I don't know," said Carrie. "I just don't seem to be able to do
it."
  She was grateful for the drummer's presence, though. She had found
the company so nervous that her own strength had gone.
  "Come on," said Drouet. "Brace up. What are you afraid of? Go on out
there now, and do the trick. What do you care?"
  Carrie revived a little under the drummer's electrical, nervous
condition.
  "Did I do so very bad?"
  "Not a bit. All you need is a little more ginger. Do it as you
showed me. Get that toss of your head you had the other night."
  Carrie remembered her triumph in the room. She tried to think she
could do it.
  "What's next?" he said, looking at her part, which she had been
studying.
  "Why, the scene between Ray and me when I refuse him."
  "Well, now you do that lively," said the drummer. "Put in snap,
that's the thing. Act as if you didn't care."
  "Your turn next, Miss Madenda," said the prompter.
  "Oh, dear," said Carrie.
  "Well, you're a chump for being afraid," said Drouet. "Come on
now, brace up. I'll watch you from right here."
  "Will you?" said Carrie.
  "Yes, now go on. Don't be afraid."
  The prompter signalled her.
  She started out, weak as ever, but suddenly her nerve partially
returned. She thought of Drouet looking.
  "Ray," she said, gently, using a tone of voice much more calm than
when she had last appeared. It was the scene which had pleased the
director at the rehearsal.
  "She's easier," thought Hurstwood to himself.
  She did not do the part as she had at rehearsal, but she was better.
The audience was at least not irritated. The improvement of the work
of the entire company took away direct observation from her. They were
making very fair progress, and now it looked as if the play would be
passable, in the less trying parts at least.
  Carrie came off warm and nervous.
  "Well," she said, looking at him, "was it any better?"
  "Well, I should say so. That's the way. Put life into it. You did
that about a thousand per cent. better than you did the other scene.
Now go on and fire up. You can do it. Knock 'em."
  "Was it really better?"
  "Better, I should say so. What comes next?"
  "That ballroom scene."
  "Well, you can do that all right," he said.
  "I don't know," answered Carrie.
  "Why, woman," he exclaimed, "you did it for me! Now you go out there
and do it. It'll be fun for you. Just do as you did in the room. If
you'll reel it off that way, I'll bet you make a hit. Now, what'll you
bet? You do it."
  The drummer usually allowed his ardent good-nature to get the better
of his speech. He really did think that Carrie had acted this
particular scene very well, and he wanted her to repeat it in
public. His enthusiasm was due to the mere spirit of the occasion.
  When the time came, he buoyed Carrie up most effectually. He began
to make her feel as if she had done very well. The old melancholy of
desire began to come back as he talked at her, and by the time the
situation rolled around she was running high in feeling.
  "I think I can do this."
  "Sure you can. Now you go ahead and see."
  On the stage, Mrs. Van Dam was making her cruel insinuation
against Laura.
  Carrie listened, and caught the infection of something- she did
not know what. Her nostrils sniffed thinly.
  "It means," the professional actor began, speaking as Ray, "that
society is a terrible avenger of insult. Have you ever heard of the
Siberian wolves? When one of the pack falls through weakness, the
others devour him. It is not an elegant comparison, but there is
something wolfish in society. Laura has mocked it with a pretence, and
society, which is made up of pretence, will bitterly resent the
mockery."
  At the sound of her stage name Carrie started. She began to feel the
bitterness of the situation. The feelings of the outcast descended
upon her. She hung at the wing's edge, wrapt in her own mounting
thoughts. She hardly heard anything more, save her own rumbling blood.
  "Come, girls," said Mrs. Van Dam, solemnly, "let us look after our
things. They are no longer safe when such an accomplished thief
enters."
  "Cue," said the prompter, close to her side, but she did not hear.
Already she was moving forward with a steady grace, born of
inspiration. She dawned upon the audience, handsome and proud,
shifting, with the necessity of the situation, to a cold, white,
helpless object, as the social pack moved away from her scornfully.
  Hurstwood blinked his eyes and caught the infection. The radiating
waves of feeling and sincerity were already breaking against the
farthest walls of the chamber. The magic of passion, which will yet
dissolve the world, was here at work.
  There was a drawing, too, of attention, a riveting of feeling,
heretofore wandering.
  "Ray! Ray! Why do you not come back to her?" was the cry of Pearl.
  Every eye was fixed on Carrie, still proud and scornful. They
moved as she moved. Their eyes were with her eyes.
  Mrs. Morgan, as Pearl, approached her.
  "Let us go home," she said.
  "No," answered Carrie, her voice assuming for the first time a
penetrating quality which it had never known. "Stay with him!"
  She pointed an almost accusing hand toward her lover. Then, with a
pathos which struck home because of its utter simplicity, "He shall
not suffer long."
  Hurstwood realised that he was seeing something extraordinarily
good. It was heightened for him by the applause of the audience as the
curtain descended and the fact that it was Carrie. He thought now that
she was beautiful. She had done something which was above his
sphere. He felt a keen delight in realising that she was his.
  "Fine," he said, and then, seized by a sudden impulse, arose and
went about to the stage door.
  When he came in upon Carrie she was still with Drouet. His
feelings for her were most exuberant. He was almost swept away by
the strength and feeling she exhibited. His desire was to pour forth
his praise with the unbounded feelings of a lover, but here was
Drouet, whose affection was also rapidly reviving. The latter was more
fascinated, if anything, than Hurstwood. At least, in the nature of
things, it took a more ruddy form.
  "Well, well," said Drouet, "you did out of sight. That was simply
great. I knew you could do it. Oh, but you're a little daisy!"
  Carrie's eyes flamed with the light of achievement.
  "Did I do all right?"
  "Did you? Well, I guess. Didn't you hear the applause?"
  There was some faint sound of clapping yet.
  "I thought I got it something like- I felt it."
  Just then Hurstwood came in. Instinctively he felt the change in
Drouet. He saw that the drummer was near to Carrie, and jealousy
leaped alight in his bosom. In a flash of thought, he reproached
himself for having sent him back. Also, he hated him as an intruder.
He could scarcely pull himself down to the level where he would have
to congratulate Carrie as a friend. Nevertheless, the man mastered
himself, and it was a triumph. He almost jerked the old subtle light
to his eyes.
  "I thought," he said, looking at Carrie, "I would come around and
tell you how well you did, Mrs. Drouet. It was delightful."
  Carrie took the cue, and replied:
  "Oh, thank you."
  "I was just telling her," put in Drouet, now delighted with his
possession, "that I thought she did fine."
  "Indeed you did," said Hurstwood, turning upon Carrie eyes in
which she read more than the words.
  Carrie laughed luxuriantly.
  "If you do as well in the rest of the play, you will make us all
think you are a born actress."
  Carrie smiled again. She felt the acuteness of Hurstwood's position,
and wished deeply that she could be alone with him, but she did not
understand the change in Drouet. Hurstwood found that he could not
talk, repressed as he was, and grudging Drouet every moment of his
presence, he bowed himself out with the elegance of a Faust. Outside
he set his teeth with envy.
  "Damn it!" he said, "is he always going to be in the way?" He was
moody when he got back to the box, and could not talk for thinking
of his wretched situation.
  As the curtain for the next act arose, Drouet came back. He was very
much enlivened in temper and inclined to whisper, but Hurstwood
pretended interest. He fixed his eyes on the stage, although Carrie
was not there, a short bit of melodramatic comedy preceding her
entrance. He did not see what was going on, however. He was thinking
his own thoughts, and they were wretched.
  The progress of the play did not improve matters for him. Carrie,
from now on, was easily the centre of interest. The audience, which
had been inclined to feel that nothing could be good after the first
gloomy impression, now went to the other extreme and saw power where
it was not. The general feeling reacted on Carrie. She presented her
part with some felicity, though nothing like the intensity which had
aroused the feeling at the end of the long first act.
  Both Hurstwood and Drouet viewed her pretty figure with rising
feelings. The fact that such ability should reveal itself in her, that
they should see it set forth under such effective circumstances,
framed almost in massy gold and shone upon by the appropriate lights
of sentiment and personality, heightened her charm for them. She was
more than the old Carrie to Drouet. He longed to be at home with her
until he could tell her. He awaited impatiently the end, when they
should go home alone.
  Hurstwood, on the contrary, saw in the strength of her new
attractiveness his miserable predicament. He could have cursed the man
beside him. By the Lord, he could not even applaud feelingly as he
would. For once he must simulate when it left a taste in his mouth.
  It was in the last act that Carrie's fascination for her lovers
assumed its most effective character.
  Hurstwood listened to its progress, wondering when Carrie would come
on. He had not long to wait. The author had used the artifice of
sending all the merry company for a drive, and now Carrie came in
alone. It was the first time that Hurstwood had had a chance to see
her facing the audience quite alone, for nowhere else had she been
without a foil of some sort. He suddenly felt, as she entered, that
her old strength- the power that had grasped him at the end of the
first act- had come back. She seemed to be gaining feeling, now that
the play was drawing to a close and the opportunity for great action
was passing.
  "Poor Pearl," she said, speaking with natural pathos. "It is a sad
thing to want for happiness, but it is a terrible thing to see another
groping about blindly for it, when it is almost within the grasp."
  She was gazing now sadly out upon the open sea, her arm resting
listlessly upon the polished door-post.
  Hurstwood began to feel a deep sympathy for her and for himself.
He could almost feel that she was talking to him. He was, by a
combination of feelings and entanglements, almost deluded by that
quality of voice and manner which, like a pathetic strain of music,
seems ever a personal and intimate thing. Pathos has this quality,
that it seems ever addressed to one alone.
  "And yet, she can be very happy with him," went on the little
actress. "Her sunny temper, her joyous face will brighten any home."
  She turned slowly toward the audience without seeing. There was so
much simplicity in her movements that she seemed wholly alone. Then
she found a seat by a table, and turned over some books, devoting a
thought to them.
  "With no longings for what I may not have," she breathed in
conclusion- and it was almost a sigh- "my existence hidden from all
save two in the wide world, and making my joy out of the joy of that
innocent girl who will soon be his wife."
  Hurstwood was sorry when a character, known as Peach Blossom,
interrupted her. He stirred irritably, for he wished her to go on.
He was charmed by the pale face, the lissome figure, draped in pearl
grey, with a coiled string of pearls at the throat. Carrie had the air
of one who was weary and in need of protection, and, under the
fascinating make-believe of the moment, he rose in feeling until he
was ready in spirit to go to her and ease her out of her misery by
adding to his own delight.
  In a moment Carrie was alone again, and was saying, with animation:
  "I must return to the city, no matter what dangers may lurk here.
I must go, secretly if I can; openly, if I must."
  There was a sound of horses' hoofs outside, and then Ray's voice
saying:
  "No, I shall not ride again. Put him up."
  He entered, and then began a scene which had as much to do with
the creation of the tragedy of affection in Hurstwood as anything in
his peculiar and involved career. For Carrie had resolved to make
something of this scene, and, now that the cue had come, it began to
take a feeling hold upon her. Both Hurstwood and Drouet noted the
rising sentiment as she proceeded.
  "I thought you had gone with Pearl," she said to her lover.
  "I did go part of the way, but I left the party a mile down the
road."
  "You and Pearl had no disagreement?"
  "No- yes; that is, we always have. Our social barometers always
stand at 'cloudy' and 'overcast.'
  "And whose fault is that?" she said, easily.
  "Not mine," he answered, pettishly. "I know I do all I can- I say
all I can- but she-"
  This was rather awkwardly put by Patton, but Carrie redeemed it with
a grace which was inspiring.
  "But she is your wife," she said, fixing her whole attention upon
the stilled actor, and softening the quality of her voice until it was
again low and musical. "Ray, my friend, courtship is the text from
which the whole sermon of married life takes its theme. Do not let
yours be discontented and unhappy."
  She put her two little hands together and pressed them appealingly.
  Hurstwood gazed with slightly parted lips. Drouet was fidgeting with
satisfaction.
  "To be my wife, yes," went on the actor in a manner which was weak
by comparison, but which could not now spoil the tender atmosphere
which Carrie had created and maintained. She did not seem to feel that
he was wretched. She would have done nearly as well with a block of
wood. The accessories she needed were within her own imagination.
The acting of others could not affect them.
  "And you repent already?" she said, slowly.
  "I lost you," he said, seizing her little hand, "and I was at the
mercy of any flirt who chose to give me an inviting look. It was
your fault- you know it was- why did you leave me?"
  Carrie turned slowly away, and seemed to be mastering some impulse
in silence. Then she turned back.
  "Ray," she said, "the greatest happiness I have ever felt has been
the thought that all your affection was forever bestowed upon a
virtuous woman, your equal in family, fortune, and accomplishments.
What a revelation do you make to me now! What is it makes you
continually war with your happiness?"
  The last question was asked so simply that it came to the audience
and the lover as a personal thing.
  At last it came to the part where the lover exclaimed, "Be to me
as you used to be."
  Carrie answered, with affecting sweetness, "I cannot be that to you,
but I can speak in the spirit of the Laura who is dead to you
forever."
  "Be it as you will," said Patton.
  Hurstwood leaned forward. The whole audience was silent and intent.
  "Let the woman you look upon be wise or vain," said Carrie, her eyes
bent sadly upon the lover, who had sunk into a seat, "beautiful or
homely, rich or poor, she has but one thing she can really give or
refuse- her heart,"
  Drouet felt a scratch in his throat.
  "Her beauty, her wit, her accomplishments, she may sell to you;
but her love is the treasure without money and without price."
  The manager suffered this as a personal appeal. It came to him as if
they were alone, and he could hardly restrain the tears for sorrow
over the hopeless, pathetic, and yet dainty and appealing woman whom
he loved. Drouet also was beside himself. He was resolving that he
would be to Carrie what he had never been before. He would marry
her, by George! She was worth it.
  "She asks only in return," said Carrie, scarcely hearing the
small, scheduled reply of her lover, and putting herself even more
in harmony with the plaintive melody now issuing from the orchestra,
"that when you look upon her your eyes shall speak devotion; that when
you address her your voice shall be gentle, loving, and kind; that you
shall not despise her because she cannot understand all at once your
vigorous thoughts and ambitious designs; for, when misfortune and evil
have defeated your greatest purposes, her love remains to console you.
You look to the trees," she continued, while Hurstwood restrained
his feelings only by the grimmest repression, "for strength and
grandeur; do not despise the flowers because their fragrance is all
they have to give. Remember," she concluded, tenderly, "love is all
a woman has to give," and she laid a strange, sweet accent on the all,
"but it is the only thing which God permits us to carry beyond the
grave."
  The two men were in the most harrowed state of affection. They
scarcely heard the few remaining words with which the scene concluded.
They only saw their idol, moving about with appealing grace,
continuing a power which to them was a revelation.
  Hurstwood resolved a thousand things, Drouet as well. They joined
equally in the burst of applause which called Carrie out. Drouet
pounded his hands until they ached. Then he jumped up again and
started out. As he went, Carrie came out, and, seeing an immense
basket of flowers being hurried down the aisle toward her, she waited.
They were Hurstwood's. She looked toward the manager's box for a
moment, caught his eye, and smiled. He could have leaped out of the
box to enfold her. He forgot the need of circumspectness which his
married state enforced. He almost forgot that he had with him in the
box those who knew him. By the Lord, he would have that lovely girl if
it took his all. He would act at once. This should be the end of
Drouet, and don't you forget it. He would not wait another day. The
drummer should not have her.
  He was so excited that he could not stay in the box. He went into
the lobby, and then into the street, thinking. Drouet did not
return. In a few minutes the last act was over, and he was crazy to
have Carrie alone. He cursed the luck that could keep him smiling,
bowing, shamming, when he wanted to tell her that he loved her, when
he wanted to whisper to her alone. He groaned as he saw that his hopes
were futile. He must even take her to supper, shamming. He finally
went about and asked how she was getting along. The actors were all
dressing, talking, hurrying about. Drouet was palavering himself
with the looseness of excitement and passion. The manager mastered
himself only by a great effort.
  "We are going to supper, of course," he said, with a voice that
was a mockery of his heart.
  "Oh, yes," said Carrie, smiling.
  The little actress was in fine feather. She was realising now what
it was to be petted. For once she was the admired, the sought-for. The
independence of success now made its first faint showing. With the
tables turned, she was looking down, rather than up, to her lover. She
did not fully realise that this was so, but there was something in
condescension coming from her which was infinitely sweet. When she was
ready they climbed into the waiting coach and drove down town; once,
only, did she find an opportunity to express her feeling, and that was
when the manager preceded Drouet in the coach and sat beside her.
Before Drouet was fully in she had squeezed Hurstwood's hand in a
gentle, impulsive manner. The manager was beside himself with
affection. He could have sold his soul to be with her alone. "Ah,"
he thought, "the agony of it."
  Drouet hung on, thinking he was all in all. The dinner was spoiled
by his enthusiasm. Hurstwood went home feeling as if he should die
if he did not find affectionate relief. He whispered "to-morrow"
passionately to Carrie, and she understood. He walked away from the
drummer and his prize at parting feeling as if he could slay him and
not regret. Carrie also felt the misery of it.
  "Good-night," he said, simulating an easy friendliness.
  "Good-night," said the little actress, tenderly.
  "The fool!" he said, now hating Drouet. "The idiot! I'll do him yet,
and that quick! We'll see to-morrow."
  "Well, if you aren't a wonder," Drouet was saying, complacently,
squeezing Carrie's arm. "You are the dandiest little girl on earth."
                        Chapter XX.
         THE LURE OF THE SPIRIT: THE FLESH IN PURSUIT

  Passion in a man of Hurstwood's nature takes a vigorous form. It
is no musing, dreamy thing. There is none of the tendency to sing
outside of my lady's window- to languish and repine in the face of
difficulties. In the night he was long getting to sleep because of too
much thinking, and in the morning he was early awake, seizing with
alacrity upon the same dear subject and pursuing it with vigour. He
was out of sorts physically, as well as disordered mentally, for did
he not delight in a new manner in his Carrie, and was not Drouet in
the way? Never was man more harassed than he by the thoughts of his
love being held by the elated, flush-mannered drummer. He would have
given anything, it seemed to him, to have the complication ended- to
have Carrie acquiesce to an arrangement which would dispose of
Drouet effectually and forever.
  What to do. He dressed thinking. He moved about in the same
chamber with his wife, unmindful of her presence.
  At breakfast he found himself without an appetite. The meat to which
he helped himself remained on his plate untouched. His coffee grew
cold, while he scanned the paper indifferently. Here and there he read
a little thing, but remembered nothing. Jessica had not yet come down.
His wife sat at one end of the table revolving thoughts of her own
in silence. A new servant had been recently installed and had forgot
the napkins. On this account the silence was irritably broken by a
reproof.
  "I've told you about this before, Maggie," said Mrs. Hurstwood. "I'm
not going to tell you again."
  Hurstwood took a glance at his wife. She was frowning. Just now
her manner irritated him excessively. Her next remark was addressed to
him.
  "Have you made up your mind, George, when you will take your
vacation?"
  It was customary for them to discuss the regular summer outing at
this season of the year.
  "Not yet," he said, "I'm very busy just now."
  "Well, you'll want to make up your mind pretty soon, won't you, if
we're going?" she returned.
  "I guess we have a few days yet," he said.
  "Hmff," she returned. "Don't wait until the season's over."
  She stirred in aggravation as she said this.
  "There you go again," he observed. "One would think I never did
anything, the way you begin."
  "Well, I want to know about it," she reiterated.
  "You've got a few days yet," he insisted. "You'll not want to
start before the races are over."
  He was irritated to think that this should come up when he wished to
have his thoughts for other purposes.
  "Well, we may. Jessica doesn't want to stay until the end of the
races."
  "What did you want with a season ticket, then?"
  "Uh!" she said, using the sound as an exclamation of disgust,
"I'll not argue with you," and therewith arose to leave the table.
  "Say," he said, rising, putting a note of determination in his voice
which caused her to delay her departure, "what's the matter with you
of late? Can't I talk with you any more?"
  "Certainly, you can talk with me," she replied, laying emphasis on
the word.
  "Well, you wouldn't think so by the way you act. Now, you want to
know when I'll be ready- not for a month yet. Maybe not then."
  "We'll go without you."
  "You will, eh?" he sneered.
  "Yes, we will."
  He was astonished at the woman's determination, but it only
irritated him the more.
  "Well, we'll see about that. It seems to me you're trying to run
things with a pretty high hand of late. You talk as though you settled
my affairs for me. Well, you don't. You don't regulate anything that's
connected with me. If you want to go, go, but you won't hurry me by
any such talk as that."
  He was thoroughly aroused now. His dark eyes snapped, and he
crunched his paper as he laid it down. Mrs. Hurstwood said nothing
more. He was just finishing when she turned on her heel and went out
into the hall and upstairs. He paused for a moment, as if
hesitating, then sat down and drank a little coffee, and thereafter
arose and went for his hat and gloves upon the main floor.
  His wife had really not anticipated a row of this character. She had
come down to the breakfast table feeling a little out of sorts with
herself and revolving a scheme which she had in her mind. Jessica
had called her attention to the fact that the races were not what they
were supposed to be. The social opportunities were not what they had
thought they would be this year. The beautiful girl found going
every day a dull thing. There was an earlier exodus this year of
people who were anybody to the watering places and Europe. In her
own circle of acquaintances several young men in whom she was
interested had gone to Waukesha. She began to feel that she would like
to go too, and her mother agreed with her.
  Accordingly, Mrs. Hurstwood decided to broach the subject. She was
thinking this over when she came down to the table, but for some
reason the atmosphere was wrong. She was not sure, after it was all
over, just how the trouble had begun. She was determined now, however,
that her husband was a brute, and that, under no circumstances,
would she let this go by unsettled. She would have more lady-like
treatment or she would know why.
  For his part, the manager was loaded with the care of this new
argument until he reached his office and started from there to meet
Carrie. Then the other complications of love, desire, and opposition
possessed him. His thoughts fled on before him upon eagles' wings.
He could hardly wait until he should meet Carrie face to face. What
was the night, after all, without her- what the day? She must and
should be his.
  For her part, Carrie had experienced a world of fancy and feeling
since she had left him, the night before. She had listened to Drouet's
enthusiastic maunderings with much regard for that part which
concerned herself, with very little for that which affected his own
gain. She kept him at such lengths as she could, because her
thoughts were with her own triumph. She felt Hurstwood's passion as
a delightful background to her own achievement, and she wondered
what he would have to say. She was sorry for him, too, with that
peculiar sorrow which finds something complimentary to itself in the
misery of another. She was now experiencing the first shades of
feeling of that subtle change which removes one out of the ranks of
the suppliants into the lines of the dispensers of charity. She was,
all in all, exceedingly happy.
  On the morrow, however, there was nothing in the papers concerning
the event, and, in view of the flow of common, everyday things
about, it now lost a shade of the glow of the previous evening. Drouet
himself was not talking so much of as for her. He felt instinctively
that, for some reason or other, he needed reconstruction in her
regard.
  "I think," he said, as he spruced around their chambers the next
morning, preparatory to going down town, "that I'll straighten out
that little deal of mine this month and then we'll get married. I
was talking with Mosher about that yesterday."
  "No, you won't," said Carrie, who was coming to feel a certain faint
power to jest with the drummer.
  "Yes, I will," he exclaimed, more feelingly than usual, adding, with
the tone of one who pleads, "Don't you believe what I've told you?"
  Carrie laughed a little.
  "Of course I do," she answered.
  Drouet's assurance now misgave him. Shallow as was his mental
observation, there was that in the things which had happened which
made his little power of analysis useless. Carrie was still with
him, but not helpless and pleading. There was a lilt in her voice
which was new. She did not study him with eyes expressive of
dependence. The drummer was feeling the shadow of something which
was coming. It coloured his feelings and made him develop those little
attentions and say those little words which were mere forefendations
against danger.
  Shortly afterward he departed, and Carrie prepared for her meeting
with Hurstwood. She hurried at her toilet, which was soon made, and
hastened down the stairs. At the corner she passed Drouet, but they
did not see each other.
  The drummer had forgotten some bills which he wished to turn into
his house. He hastened up the stairs and burst into the room, but
found only the chambermaid, who was cleaning up.
  "Hello," he exclaimed, half to himself, "has Carrie gone?"
  "Your wife? Yes, she went out just a few minutes ago."
  "That's strange," thought Drouet. "She didn't say a word to me. I
wonder where she went?"
  He hastened about, rummaging in his valise for what he wanted, and
finally pocketing it. Then he turned his attention to his fair
neighbour, who was good-looking and kindly disposed towards him.
  "What are you up to?" he said, smiling.
  "Just cleaning," she replied, stopping and winding a dusting towel
about her hand.
  "Tired of it?"
  "Not so very."
  "Let me show you something," he said, affably, coming over and
taking out of his pocket a little lithographed card which had been
issued by a wholesale tobacco company. On this was printed a picture
of a pretty girl, holding a striped parasol, the colours of which
could be changed by means of a revolving disk in the back, which
showed red, yellow, green, and blue through little interstices made in
the ground occupied by the umbrella top.
  "Isn't that clever?" he said, handing it to her and showing her
how it worked. "You never saw anything like that before."
  "Isn't it nice?" she answered.
  "You can have it if you want it," he remarked.
  "That's a pretty ring you have," he said, touching a commonplace
setting which adorned the hand holding the card he had given her.
  "Do you think so?"
  "That's right," he answered, making use of a pretence at examination
to secure her finger. "That's fine."
  The ice being thus broken, he launched into further observation,
pretending to forget that her fingers were still retained by his.
She soon withdrew them, however, and retreated a few feet to rest
against the window-sill.
  "I didn't see you for a long time," she said, coquettishly,
repulsing one of his exuberant approaches. "You must have been away."
  "I was," said Drouet.
  "Do you travel far?"
  "Pretty far- yes."
  "Do you like it?"
  "Oh, not very well. You get tired of it after a while."
  "I wish I could travel," said the girl, gazing idly out of the
window.
  "What has become of your friend, Hurstwood?" she suddenly asked,
bethinking herself of the manager, who, from her own observation,
seemed to contain promising material.
  "He's here in town. What makes you ask about him?"
  "Oh, nothing, only he hasn't been here since you got back."
  "How did you come to know him?"
  "Didn't I take up his name a dozen times in the last month?"
  "Get out," said the drummer, lightly. "He hasn't called more than
half a dozen times since we've been here."
  "He hasn't, eh?" said the girl, smiling. "That's all you know
about it."
  Drouet took on a slightly more serious tone. He was uncertain as
to whether she was joking or not.
  "Tease," he said, "what makes you smile that way?"
  "Oh, nothing."
  "Have you seen him recently?"
  "Not since you came back," she laughed.
  "Before?"
  "Certainly."
  "How often?"
  "Why, nearly every day."
  She was a mischievous newsmonger, and was keenly wondering what
the effect of her words would be.
  "Who did he come to see?" asked the drummer, incredulously.
  "Mrs. Drouet."
  He looked rather foolish at this answer, and then attempted to
correct himself so as not to appear a dupe.
  "Well," he said, "what of it?"
  "Nothing," replied the girl, her head cocked coquettishly on one
side.
  "He's an old friend," he went on, getting deeper into the mire.
  He would have gone on further with his little flirtation, but the
taste for it was temporarily removed. He was quite relieved when the
girl's name was called from below.
  "I've got to go," she said, moving away from him airily.
  "I'll see you later," he said, with a pretence of disturbance at
being interrupted.
  When she was gone, he gave freer play to his feelings. His face,
never easily controlled by him, expressed all the perplexity and
disturbance which he felt. Could it be that Carrie had received so
many visits and yet said nothing about them? Was Hurstwood lying? What
did the chambermaid mean by it, anyway? He had thought there was
something odd about Carrie's manner at the time. Why did she look so
disturbed when he had asked her how many times Hurstwood had called?
By George! he remembered now. There was something strange about the
whole thing.
  He sat down in a rocking-chair to think the better, drawing up one
leg on his knee and frowning mightily. His mind ran on at a great
rate.
  And yet Carrie hadn't acted out of the ordinary. It couldn't be,
by George, that she was deceiving him. She hadn't acted that way. Why,
even last night she had been as friendly toward him as could be, and
Hurstwood too. Look how they acted! He could hardly believe they would
try to deceive him.
  His thoughts burst into words.
  "She did act sort of funny at times. Here she had dressed and gone
out this morning and never said a word."
  He scratched his head and prepared to go down town. He was still
frowning. As he came into the hall he encountered the girl, who was
now looking after another chamber. She had on a white dusting cap,
beneath which her chubby face shone good-naturedly. Drouet almost
forgot his worry in the fact that she was smiling on him. He put his
hand familiarly on her shoulder, as if only to greet her in passing.
  "Got over being mad?" she said, still mischievously inclined.
  "I'm not mad," he answered.
  "I thought you were," she said, smiling.
  "Quit your fooling about that," he said, in an offhand way. "Were
you serious?"
  "Certainly," she answered. Then, with an air of one who did not
intentionally mean to create trouble, "He came lots of times. I
thought you knew."
  The game of deception was up with Drouet. He did not try to simulate
indifference further.
  "Did he spend the evenings here?" he asked.
  "Sometimes. Sometimes they went out."
  "In the evening?"
  "Yes. You mustn't look so mad, though."
  "I'm not," he said. "Did any one else see him?"
  "Of course," said the girl, as if, after all, it were nothing in
particular.
  "How long ago was this?"
  "Just before you came back."
  The drummer pinched his lip nervously.
  "Don't say anything, will you?" he asked, giving the girl's arm a
gentle squeeze.
  "Certainly not," she returned. "I wouldn't worry over it."
  "All right," he said, passing on, seriously brooding for once, and
yet not wholly unconscious of the fact that he was making a most
excellent impression upon the chambermaid.
  "I'll see her about that," he said to himself, passionately, feeling
that he had been unduly wronged. "I'll find out, b'George, whether
she'll act that way or not."
                       Chapter XXI.
        THE LURE OF THE SPIRIT: THE FLESH IN PURSUIT

  When Carrie came Hurstwood had been waiting many minutes. His
blood was warm; his nerves wrought up. He was anxious to see the woman
who had stirred him so profoundly the night before.
  "Here you are," he said, repressedly, feeling a spring in his
limbs and an elation which was tragic in itself.
  "Yes," said Carrie.
  They walked on as if bound for some objective point, while Hurstwood
drank in the radiance of her presence. The rustle of her pretty
skirt was like music to him.
  "Are you satisfied?" he asked, thinking of how well she did the
night before.
  "Are you?"
  He tightened his fingers as he saw the smile she gave him.
  "It was wonderful."
  Carrie laughed ecstatically.
  "That was one of the best things I've seen in a long time," he
added.
  He was dwelling on her attractiveness as he had felt it the evening
before, and mingling it with the feeling her presence inspired now.
  Carrie was dwelling in the atmosphere which this man created for
her. Already she was enlivened and suffused with a glow. She felt
his drawing toward her in every sound of his voice.
  "Those were such nice flowers you sent me," she said, after a moment
or two. "They were beautiful."
  "Glad you liked them," he answered, simply.
  He was thinking all the time that the subject of his desire was
being delayed. He was anxious to turn the talk to his own feelings.
All was ripe for it. His Carrie was beside him. He wanted to plunge in
and expostulate with her, and yet he found himself fishing for words
and feeling for a way.
  "You got home all right," he said, gloomily, of a sudden, his tone
modifying itself to one of self-commiseration.
  "Yes," said Carrie, easily.
  He looked at her steadily for a moment, slowing his pace and
fixing her with his eye.
  She felt the flood of feeling.
  "How about me?" he asked.
  This confused Carrie considerably, for she realised the floodgates
were open. She didn't know exactly what to answer.
  "I don't know," she answered.
  He took his lower lip between his teeth for a moment, and then let
it go. He stopped by the walk side and kicked the grass with his
toe. He searched her face with a tender, appealing glance.
  "Won't you come away from him?" he asked, intensely.
  "I don't know," returned Carrie, still illogically drifting and
finding nothing at which to catch.
  As a matter of fact, she was in a most hopeless quandary. Here was a
man whom she thoroughly liked, who exercised an influence over her,
sufficient almost to delude her into the belief that she was possessed
of a lively passion for him. She was still the victim of his keen
eyes, his suave manners, his fine clothes. She looked and saw before
her a man who was most gracious and sympathetic, who leaned toward her
with a feeling that was a delight to observe. She could not resist the
glow of his temperament, the light of his eye. She could hardly keep
from feeling what he felt.
  And yet she was not without thoughts which were disturbing. What did
he know? What had Drouet told him? Was she a wife in his eyes, or
what? Would he marry her? Even while he talked, and she softened,
and her eyes were lighted with a tender glow, she was asking herself
if Drouet had told him they were not married. There was never anything
at all convincing about what Drouet said.
  And yet she was not grieved at Hurstwood's love. No strain of
bitterness was in it for her, whatever he knew. He was evidently
sincere. His passion was real and warm. There was power in what he
said. What should she do? She went on thinking this, answering
vaguely, languishing affectionately, and altogether drifting, until
she was on a borderless sea of speculation.
  "Why don't you come away?" he said, tenderly. "I will arrange for
you whatever-"
  "Oh, don't," said Carrie.
  "Don't what?" he asked. "What do you mean?"
  There was a look of confusion and pain in her face. She was
wondering why that miserable thought must be brought in. She was
struck as by a blade with the miserable provision which was outside
the pale of marriage.
  He himself realised that it was a wretched thing to have dragged in.
He wanted to weigh the effects of it, and yet he could not see. He
went beating on, flushed by her presence, clearly awakened,
intensely enlisted in his plan.
  "Won't you come?" he said, beginning over and with a more reverent
feeling. "You know I can't do without you- you know it- it can't go on
this way- can it?"
  "I know," said Carrie.
  "I wouldn't ask if I- I wouldn't argue with you if I could help
it. Look at me, Carrie. Put yourself in my place. You don't want to
stay away from me, do you?"
  She shook her head as if in deep thought.
  "Then why not settle the whole thing, once and for all?"
  "I don't know," said Carrie.
  "Don't know! Ah, Carrie, what makes you say that? Don't torment
me. Be serious."
  "I am," said Carrie, softly.
  "You can't be, dearest, and say that. Not when you know how I love
you. Look at last night."
  His manner as he said this was the most quiet imaginable. His face
and body retained utter composure. Only his eyes moved, and they
flashed a subtle, dissolving fire. In them the whole intensity of
the man's nature was distilling itself.
  Carrie made no answer.
  "How can you act this way, dearest?" he inquired, after a time. "You
love me, don't you?"
  He turned on her such a storm of feeling that she was overwhelmed.
For the moment all doubts were cleared away.
  "Yes," she answered, frankly and tenderly.
  "Well, then you'll come, won't you- come to-night?"
  Carrie shook her head in spite of her distress.
  "I can't wait any longer," urged Hurstwood. "If that is too soon,
come Saturday."
  "When will we be married?" she asked, diffidently, forgetting in her
difficult situation that she had hoped he took her to be Drouet's
wife.
  The manager started, hit as he was by a problem which was more
difficult than hers. He gave no sign of the thoughts that flashed like
messages to his mind.
  "Any time you say," he said, with ease, refusing to discolour his
present delight with this miserable problem.
  "Saturday?" asked Carrie.
  He nodded his head.
  "Well, if you will marry me then," she said, "I'll go."
  The manager looked at his lovely prize, so beautiful, so winsome, so
difficult to be won, and made strange resolutions. His passion had
gotten to that stage now where it was no longer coloured with
reason. He did not trouble over little barriers of this sort in the
face of so much loveliness. He would accept the situation with all its
difficulties; he would not try to answer the objections which cold
truth thrust upon him. He would promise anything, everything, and
trust to fortune to disentangle him. He would make a try for Paradise,
whatever might be the result. He would be happy, by the Lord, if it
cost all honesty of statement, all abandonment of truth.
  Carrie looked at him tenderly. She could have laid her head upon his
shoulder, so delightful did it all seem.
  "Well," she said, "I'll try and get ready then."
  Hurstwood looked into her pretty face, crossed with little shadows
of wonder and misgiving, and thought he had never seen anything more
lovely.
  "I'll see you again to-morrow," he said, joyously, "and we'll talk
over the plans."
  He walked on with her, elated beyond words, so delightful had been
the result. He impressed a long story of joy and affection upon her,
though there was but here and there a word. After a half-hour he began
to realise that the meeting must come to an end, so exacting is the
world.
  "To-morrow," he said at parting, a gayety of manner adding
wonderfully to his brave demeanour.
  "Yes," said Carrie, tripping elatedly away.
  There had been so much enthusiasm engendered that she was
believing herself deeply in love. She sighed as she thought of her
handsome adorer. Yes, she would get ready by Saturday. She would go,
and they would be happy.
                       Chapter XXII.
      THE BLAZE OF THE TINDER: FLESH WARS WITH THE FLESH

  The misfortune of the Hurstwood household was due to the fact that
jealousy, having been born of love, did not perish with it. Mrs.
Hurstwood retained this in such form that subsequent influences
could transform it into hate. Hurstwood was still worthy, in a
physical sense, of the affection his wife had once bestowed upon
him, but in a social sense he fell short. With his regard died his
power to be attentive to her, and this, to a woman, is much greater
than outright crime toward another. Our self-love dictates our
appreciation of the good or evil in another. In Mrs. Hurstwood it
discoloured the very hue of her husband's indifferent nature. She
saw design in deeds and phrases which sprung only from a faded
appreciation of her presence.
  As a consequence, she was resentful and suspicious. The jealousy
that prompted her to observe every falling away from the little
amenities of the married relation on his part served to give her
notice of the airy grace with which he still took the world. She could
see from the scrupulous care which he exercised in the matter of his
personal appearance that his interest in life had abated not a jot.
Every motion, every glance had something in it of the pleasure he felt
in Carrie, of the zest this new pursuit of pleasure lent to his
days. Mrs. Hurstwood felt something, sniffing change, as animals do
danger, afar off.
  This feeling was strengthened by actions of a direct and more potent
nature on the part of Hurstwood. We have seen with what irritation
he shirked those little duties which no longer contained any amusement
or satisfaction for him, and the open snarls with which, more
recently, he resented her irritating goads. These little rows were
really precipitated by an atmosphere which was surcharged with
dissension. That it would shower, with a sky so full of blackening
thunder-clouds, would scarcely be thought worthy of comment. Thus,
after leaving the breakfast table this morning, raging inwardly at his
blank declaration of indifference at her plans, Mrs. Hurstwood
encountered Jessica in her dressing-room, very leisurely arranging her
hair. Hurstwood had already left the house.
  "I wish you wouldn't be so late coming down to breakfast," she said,
addressing Jessica, while making for her crochet basket. "Now here the
things are quite cold, and you haven't eaten."
  Her natural composure was sadly ruffled, and Jessica was doomed to
feel the fag end of the storm.
  "I'm not hungry," she answered.
  "Then why don't you say so, and let the girl put away the things,
instead of keeping her waiting all morning?"
  "She doesn't mind," answered Jessica, coolly.
  "Well, I do, if she doesn't," returned the mother, "and, anyhow, I
don't like you to talk that way to me. You're too young to put on such
an air with your mother."
  "Oh, mamma, don't row," answered Jessica. "What's the matter this
morning, anyway?"
  "Nothing's the matter, and I'm not rowing. You mustn't think because
I indulge you in some things that you can keep everybody waiting. I
won't have it."
  "I'm not keeping anybody waiting," returned Jessica, sharply,
stirred out of a cynical indifference to a sharp defence. "I said I
wasn't hungry. I don't want any breakfast."
  "Mind how you address me, missy. I'll not have it. Hear me now; I'll
not have it!"
  Jessica heard this last while walking out of the room, with a toss
of her head and a flick of her pretty skirts indicative of the
independence and indifference she felt. She did not propose to be
quarrelled with.
  Such little arguments were all too frequent, the result of a
growth of natures which were largely independent and selfish.
George, Jr., manifested even greater touchiness and exaggeration in
the matter of his individual rights, and attempted to make all feel
that he was a man with a man's privileges- an assumption which, of all
things, is most groundless and pointless in a youth of nineteen.
  Hurstwood was a man of authority and some fine feeling, and it
irritated him excessively to find himself surrounded more and more
by a world upon which he had no hold, and of which he had a
lessening understanding.
  Now, when such little things, such as the proposed earlier start
to Waukesha, came up, they made clear to him his position. He was
being made to follow, was not leading. When, in addition, a sharp
temper was manifested, and to the process of shouldering him out of
his authority was added a rousing intellectual kick, such as a sneer
or a cynical laugh, he was unable to keep his temper. He flew into
hardly repressed passion, and wished himself clear of the whole
household. It seemed a most irritating drag upon all his desires and
opportunities.
  For all this, he still retained the semblance of leadership and
control, even though his wife was straining to revolt. Her display
of temper and open assertion of opposition were based upon nothing
more than the feeling that she could do it. She had no special
evidence wherewith to justify herself- the knowledge of something
which would give her both authority and excuse. The latter was all
that was lacking, however, to give a solid foundation to what, in a
way, seemed groundless discontent. The clear proof of one overt deed
was the cold breath needed to convert the lowering clouds of suspicion
into a rain of wrath.
  An inkling of untoward deeds on the part of Hurstwood had come.
Doctor Beale, the handsome resident physician of the neighbourhood,
met Mrs. Hurstwood at her own doorstep some days after Hurstwood and
Carrie had taken the drive west on Washington Boulevard. Dr. Beale,
coming east on the same drive, had recognised Hurstwood, but not
before he was quite past him. He was not so sure of Carrie- did not
know whether it was Hurstwood's wife or daughter.
  "You don't speak to your friends when you meet them out driving,
do you?" he said, jocosely, to Mrs. Hurstwood.
  "If I see them, I do. Where was I?"
  "On Washington Boulevard," he answered, expecting her eye to light
with immediate remembrance.
  She shook her head.
  "Yes, out near Hoyne Avenue. You were with your husband."
  "I guess you're mistaken," she answered. Then, remembering her
husband's part in the affair, she immediately fell a prey to a host of
young suspicions, of which, however, she gave no sign.
  "I know I saw your husband," he went on. "I wasn't so sure about
you. Perhaps it was your daughter."
  "Perhaps it was," said Mrs. Hurstwood, knowing full well that such
was not the case, as Jessica had been her companion for weeks. She had
recovered herself sufficiently to wish to know more of the details.
  "Was it in the afternoon?" she asked, artfully, assuming an air of
acquaintanceship with the matter.
  "Yes, about two or three."
  "It must have been Jessica," said Mrs. Hurstwood, not wishing to
seem to attach any importance to the incident.
  The physician had a thought or two of his own, but dismissed the
matter as worthy of no further discussion on his part at least.
  Mrs. Hurstwood gave this bit of information considerable thought
during the next few hours, and even days. She took it for granted that
the doctor had really seen her husband, and that he had been riding,
most likely, with some other woman, after announcing himself as busy
to her. As a consequence, she recalled, with rising feeling, how often
he had refused to go to places with her, to share in little visits,
or, indeed, take part in any of the social amenities which furnished
the diversion of her existence. He had been seen at the theatre with
people whom he called Moy's friends; now he was seen driving, and,
most likely, would have an excuse for that. Perhaps there were
others of whom she did not hear, or why should he be so busy, so
indifferent, of late? In the last six weeks he had become strangely
irritable- strangely satisfied to pick up and go out, whether things
were right or wrong in the house. Why?
  She recalled, with more subtle emotions, that he did not look at her
now with any of the old light of satisfaction or approval in his
eye. Evidently, along with other things, he was taking her to be
getting old and uninteresting. He saw her wrinkles, perhaps. She was
fading, while he was still preening himself in his elegance and youth.
He was still an interested factor in the merry-makings of the world,
while she- but she did not pursue the thought. She only found the
whole situation bitter, and hated him for it thoroughly.
  Nothing came of this incident at the time, for the truth is it did
not seem conclusive enough to warrant any discussion. Only the
atmosphere of distrust and ill-feeling was strengthened, precipitating
every now and then little sprinklings of irritable conversation,
enlivened by flashes of wrath. The matter of the Waukesha outing was
merely a continuation of other things of the same nature.
  The day after Carrie's appearance on the Avery stage, Mrs. Hurstwood
visited the races with Jessica and a youth of her acquaintance, Mr.
Bart Taylor, the son of the owner of a local house-furnishing
establishment. They had driven out early, and, as it chanced,
encountered several friends of Hurstwood, all Elks, and two of whom
had attended the performance the evening before. A thousand chances
the subject of the performance had never been brought up had Jessica
not been so engaged by the attentions of her young companion, who
usurped as much time as possible. This left Mrs. Hurstwood in the mood
to extend the perfunctory greetings of some who knew her into short
conversations, and the short conversations of friends into long
ones. It was from one who meant but to greet her perfunctorily that
this interesting intelligence came.
  "I see," said this individual, who wore sporting clothes of the most
attractive pattern, and had a field-glass strung over his shoulder,
"that you did not get over to our little entertainment last evening."
  "No?" said Mrs. Hurstwood, inquiringly, and wondering why he
should be using the tone he did in noting the fact that she had not
been to something she knew nothing about. It was on her lips to say,
"What was it?" when he added, "I saw your husband."
  Her wonder was at once replaced by the more subtle quality of
suspicion.
  "Yes," she said, cautiously, "was it pleasant? He did not tell me
much about it."
  "Very. Really one of the best private theatricals I ever attended.
There was one actress who surprised us all."
  "Indeed," said Mrs. Hurstwood.
  "It's too bad you couldn't have been there, really. I was sorry to
hear you weren't feeling well."
  Feeling well! Mrs. Hurstwood could have echoed the words after him
open-mouthed. As it was, she extricated herself from her mingled
impulse to deny and question, and said, almost raspingly:
  "Yes, it is too bad."
  "Looks like there will be quite a crowd here to-day, doesn't it?"
the acquaintance observed, drifting off upon another topic.
  The manager's wife would have questioned farther, but she saw no
opportunity. She was for the moment wholly at sea, anxious to think
for herself, and wondering what new deception was this which caused
him to give out that she was ill when she was not. Another case of her
company not wanted, and excuses being made. She resolved to find out
more.
  "Were you at the performance last evening?" she asked of the next of
Hurstwood's friends who greeted her, as she sat in her box.
  "Yes. You didn't get around."
  "No," she answered, "I was not feeling very well."
  "So your husband told me," he answered. "Well, it was really very
enjoyable. Turned out much better than I expected."
  "Were there many there?"
  "The house was full. It was quite an Elk night. I saw quite a number
of your friends- Mrs. Harrison, Mrs. Barnes, Mrs. Collins."
  "Quite a social gathering."
  "Indeed it was. My wife enjoyed it very much."
  Mrs. Hurstwood bit her lip.
  "So," she thought, "that's the way he does. Tells my friends I am
sick and cannot come."
  She wondered what could induce him to go alone. There was
something back of this. She rummaged her brain for a reason.
  By evening, when Hurstwood reached home, she had brooded herself
into a state of sullen desire for explanation and revenge. She
wanted to know what this peculiar action of his imported. She was
certain there was more behind it all than what she had heard, and evil
curiosity mingled well with distrust and the remnants of her wrath
of the morning. She, impending disaster itself, walked about with
gathered shadow at the eyes and the rudimentary muscles of savagery
fixing the hard lines of her mouth.
  On the other hand, as we may well believe, the manager came home
in the sunniest mood. His conversation and agreement with Carrie had
raised his spirits until he was in the frame of mind of one who
sings joyously. He was proud of himself, proud of his success, proud
of Carrie. He could have been genial to all the world, and he bore
no grudge against his wife. He meant to be pleasant, to forget her
presence, to live in the atmosphere of youth and pleasure which had
been restored to him.
  So now, the house, to his mind, had a most pleasing and
comfortable appearance. In the hall he found an evening paper, laid
there by the maid and forgotten by Mrs. Hurstwood. In the
dining-room the table was clean laid with linen and napery and shiny
with glasses and decorated china. Through an open door he saw into the
kitchen, where the fire was crackling in the stove and the evening
meal already well under way. Out in the small back yard was George,
Jr., frolicking with a young dog he had recently purchased, and in the
parlour Jessica was playing at the piano, the sound of a merry waltz
filling every nook and corner of the comfortable home. Every one, like
himself, seemed to have regained his good spirits, to be in sympathy
with youth and beauty, to be inclined to joy and merry-making. He felt
as if he could say a good word all around himself, and took a most
genial glance at the spread table and polished sideboard before
going upstairs to read his paper in the comfortable arm-chair of the
sitting-room which looked through the open windows into the street.
When he entered there, however, he found his wife brushing her hair
and musing to herself the while.
  He came lightly in, thinking to smooth over any feeling that might
still exist by a kindly word and a ready promise, but Mrs. Hurstwood
said nothing. He seated himself in the large chair, stirred lightly in
making himself comfortable, opened his paper, and began to read. In
a few moments he was smiling merrily over a very comical account of
a baseball game which had taken place between the Chicago and
Detroit teams.
  The while he was doing this Mrs. Hurstwood was observing him
casually though the medium of the mirror which was before her. She
noticed his pleasant and contented manner, his airy grace and
smiling humour, and it merely aggravated her the more. She wondered
how he could think to carry himself so in her presence after the
cynicism, indifference, and neglect he had heretofore manifested and
would continue to manifest so long as she would endure it. She thought
how she should like to tell him- what stress and emphasis she would
lend her assertions, how she could drive over this whole affair
until satisfaction should be rendered her. Indeed, the shining sword
of her wrath was but weakly suspended by a thread of thought.
  In the meanwhile Hurstwood encountered a humorous item concerning
a stranger who had arrived in the city and became entangled with a
bunco-steerer. It amused him immensely, and at last he stirred and
chuckled to himself. He wished that he might enlist his wife's
attention and read it to her.
  "Ha, ha," he exclaimed softly, as if to himself, "that's funny."
  Mrs. Hurstwood kept on arranging her hair, not so much as deigning a
glance.
  He stirred again and went on to another subject. At last he felt
as if his good-humour must find some outlet. Julia was probably
still out of humour over that affair of this morning, but that could
easily be straightened. As a matter of fact, she was in the wrong, but
he didn't care. She could go to Waukesha right away if she wanted
to. The sooner the better. He would tell her that as soon as he got
a chance, and the whole thing would blow over.
  "Did you notice," he said, at last, breaking forth concerning
another item which he had found, "that they have entered suit to
compel the Illinois Central to get off the lake front, Julia?" he
asked.
  She could scarcely force herself to answer, but managed to say "No,"
sharply.
  Hurstwood pricked up his ears. There was a note in her voice which
vibrated keenly.
  "It would be a good thing if they did," he went on, half to himself,
half to her, though he felt that something was amiss in that
quarter. He withdrew his attention to his paper very circumspectly,
listening mentally for the little sounds which should show him what
was on foot.
  As a matter of fact, no man as clever as Hurstwood- as observant and
sensitive to atmospheres of many sorts, particularly upon his own
plane of thought- would have made the mistake which he did in regard
to his wife, wrought up as she was, had he not been occupied
mentally with a very different train of thought. Had not the influence
of Carrie's regard for him, the elation which her promise aroused in
him, lasted over, he would not have seen the house in so pleasant a
mood. It was not extraordinarily bright and merry this evening. He was
merely very much mistaken, and would have been much more fitted to
cope with it had he come home in his normal state.
  After he had studied his paper a few moments longer, he felt that he
ought to modify matters in some way or other. Evidently his wife was
not going to patch up peace at a word. So he said:
  "Where did George get the dog he has there in the yard?"
  "I don't know," she snapped.
  He put his paper down on his knees and gazed idly out of the window.
He did not propose to lose his temper, but merely to be persistent and
agreeable, and by a few questions bring around a mild understanding of
some sort.
  "Why do you feel so bad about that affair of this morning?" he said,
at last. "We needn't quarrel about that. You know you can go to
Waukesha if you want to."
  "So you can stay here and trifle around with some one else?" she
exclaimed, turning to him a determined countenance upon which was
drawn a sharp and wrathful sneer.
  He stopped as if slapped in the face. In an instant his
persuasive, conciliatory manner fled. He was on the defensive at a
wink and puzzled for a word to reply.
  "What do you mean?" he said at last, straightening himself and
gazing at the cold, determined figure before him, who paid no
attention, but went on arranging herself before the mirror.
  "You know what I mean," she said, finally, as if there were a
world of information which she held in reserve- which she did not need
to tell.
  "Well, I don't," he said, stubbornly, yet nervous and alert for what
should come next. The finality of the woman's manner took away his
feeling of superiority in battle.
  She made no answer.
  "Hmph!" he murmured, with a movement of his head to one side. It was
the weakest thing he had ever done. It was totally unassured.
  Mrs. Hurstwood noticed the lack of colour in it. She turned upon
him, animal-like, able to strike an effectual second blow.
  "I want the Waukesha money to-morrow morning," she said.
  He looked at her in amazement. Never before had he seen such a cold,
steely determination in her eye- such a cruel look of indifference.
She seemed a thorough master of her mood- thoroughly confident and
determined to wrest all control from him. He felt that all his
resources could not defend him. He must attack.
  "What do you mean?" he said, jumping up. "You want! I'd like to know
what's got into you to-night."
  "Nothing's got into me," she said, flaming. "I want that money.
You can do your swaggering afterwards."
  "Swaggering, eh! What! You'll get nothing from me. What do you
mean by your insinuations, anyhow?"
  "Where were you last night?" she answered. The words were hot as
they came. "Who were you driving with on Washington Boulevard? Who
were you with at the theatre when George saw you? Do you think I'm a
fool to be duped by you? Do you think I'll sit at home here and take
your 'too busys' and 'can't come,' while you parade around and make
out that I'm unable to come? I want you to know that lordly airs
have come to an end so far as I am concerned. You can't dictate to
me nor my children. I'm through with you entirely."
  "It's a lie," he said, driven to a corner and knowing no other
excuse.
  "Lie, eh!" she said, fiercely, but with returning reserve; "you
may call it a lie if you want to, but I know."
  "It's a lie, I tell you," he said, in a low, sharp voice. "You've
been searching around for some cheap accusation for months, and now
you think you have it. You think you'll spring something and get the
upper hand. Well, I tell you, you can't. As long as I'm in this
house I'm master of it, and you or any one else won't dictate to me-
do you hear?"
  He crept toward her with a light in his eye that was ominous.
Something in the woman's cool, cynical, upper-handish manner, as if
she were already master, caused him to feel for the moment as if he
could strangle her.
  She gazed at him- a pythoness in humour.
  "I'm not dictating to you," she returned; "I'm telling you what I
want."
  The answer was so cool, so rich in bravado, that somehow it took the
wind out of his sails. He could not attack her, he could not ask her
for proofs. Somehow he felt evidence, law, the remembrance of all
his property which she held in her name, to be shining in her
glance. He was like a vessel, powerful and dangerous, but rolling
and floundering without sail.
  "And I'm telling you," he said in the end, slightly recovering
himself, "what you'll not get."
  "We'll see about it," she said. "I'll find out what my rights are.
Perhaps you'll talk to a lawyer, if you won't to me."
  It was a magnificent play, and had its effect. Hurstwood fell back
beaten. He knew now that he had more than mere bluff to contend
with. He felt that he was face to face with a dull proposition. What
to say he hardly knew. All the merriment had gone out of the day. He
was disturbed, wretched, resentful. What should he do?
  "Do as you please," he said, at last. "I'll have nothing more to
do with you," and out he strode.
                      Chapter XXIII.
          A SPIRIT IN TRAVAIL: ONE RUNG PUT BEHIND

  When Carrie reached her own room she had already fallen a prey to
those doubts and misgivings which are ever the result of a lack of
decision. She could not persuade herself as to the advisability of her
promise, or that now, having given her word, she ought to keep it. She
went over the whole ground in Hurstwood's absence, and discovered
little objections that had not occurred to her in the warmth of the
manager's argument. She saw where she had put herself in a peculiar
light, namely, that of agreeing to marry when she was already
supposedly married. She remembered a few things Drouet had done, and
now that it came to walking away from him without a word, she felt
as if she were doing wrong. Now, she was comfortably situated, and
to one who is more or less afraid of the world, this is an urgent
matter, and one which puts up strange, uncanny arguments. "You do
not know what will come. There are miserable things outside. People go
a-begging. Women are wretched. You never can tell what will happen.
Remember the time you were hungry. Stick to what you have."
  Curiously, for all her leaning towards Hurstwood, he had not taken a
firm hold on her understanding. She was listening, smiling, approving,
and yet not finally agreeing. This was due to a lack of power on his
part, a lack of that majesty of passion that sweeps the mind from
its seat, fuses and melts all arguments and theories into a tangled
mass, and destroys for the time being the reasoning power. This
majesty of passion is possessed by nearly every man once in his
life, but it is usually an attribute of youth and conduces to the
first successful mating.
  Hurstwood, being an older man, could scarcely be said to retain
the fire of youth, though he did possess a passion warm and
unreasoning. It was strong enough to induce the leaning toward him
which, on Carrie's part, we have seen. She might have been said to
be imagining herself in love, when she was not. Women frequently do
this. It flows from the fact that in each exists a bias towards
affection, a craving for the pleasure of being loved. The longing to
be shielded, bettered, sympathised with, is one of the attributes of
the sex. This, coupled with sentiment and a natural tendency to
emotion, often makes refusing difficult. It persuades them that they
are in love.
  Once at home, she changed her clothes and straightened the rooms for
herself. In the matter of the arrangement of the furniture she never
took the house-maid's opinion. That young woman invariably put one
of the rocking-chairs in the corner, and Carrie as regularly moved
it out. To-day she hardly noticed that it was in the wrong place, so
absorbed was she in her own thoughts. She worked about the room
until Drouet put in appearance at five o'clock. The drummer was
flushed and excited and full of determination to know all about her
relations with Hurstwood. Nevertheless, after going over the subject
in his mind the livelong day, he was rather weary of it and wished
it over with. He did not foresee serious consequences of any sort, and
yet he rather hesitated to begin. Carrie was sitting by the window
when he came in, rocking and looking out.
  "Well," she said innocently, weary of her own mental discussion
and wondering at his haste and ill-concealed excitement, "what makes
you hurry so?"
  Drouet hesitated, now that he was in her presence, uncertain as to
what course to pursue. He was no diplomat. He could neither read nor
see.
  "When did you get home?" he asked foolishly.
  "Oh, an hour or so ago. What makes you ask that?"
  "You weren't here," he said, "when I came back this morning, and I
thought you had gone out."
  "So I did," said Carrie simply. "I went for a walk."
  Drouet looked at her wonderingly. For all his lack of dignity in
such matters he did not know how to begin. He stared at her in the
most flagrant manner until at last she said:
  "What makes you stare at me so? What's the matter?"
  "Nothing," he answered. "I was just thinking."
  "Just thinking what?" she returned smilingly, puzzled by his
attitude.
  "Oh, nothing- nothing much."
  "Well, then, what makes you look so?"
  Drouet was standing by the dresser, gazing at her in a comic manner.
He had laid off his hat and gloves and was now fidgeting with the
little toilet pieces which were nearest him. He hesitated to believe
that the pretty woman before him was involved in anything so
unsatisfactory to himself. He was very much inclined to feel that it
was all right, after all. Yet the knowledge imparted to him by the
chambermaid was rankling in his mind. He wanted to plunge in with a
straight remark of some sort, but he knew not what.
  "Where did you go this morning?" he finally asked weakly.
  "Why, I went for a walk," said Carrie.
  "Sure you did?" he asked.
  "Yes, what makes you ask?"
  She was beginning to see now that he knew something. Instantly she
drew herself into a more reserved position. Her cheeks blanched
slightly.
  "I thought maybe you didn't," he said, beating about the bush in the
most useless manner.
  Carrie gazed at him, and as she did so her ebbing courage halted.
She saw that he himself was hesitating, and with a woman's intuition
realised that there was no occasion for great alarm.
  "What makes you talk like that?" she asked, wrinkling her pretty
forehead. "You act so funny to-night."
  "I feel funny," he answered.
  They looked at one another for a moment, and then Drouet plunged
desperately into his subject.
  "What's this about you and Hurstwood?" he asked.
  "Me and Hurstwood- what do you mean?"
  "Didn't he come here a dozen times while I was away?"
  "A dozen times," repeated Carrie, guiltily. "No, but what do you
mean?"
  "Somebody said that you went out riding with him and that he came
here every night."
  "No such thing," answered Carrie. "It isn't true. Who told you
that?"
  She was flushing scarlet to the roots of her hair, but Drouet did
not catch the full hue of her face, owing to the modified light of the
room. He was regaining much confidence as Carrie defended herself with
denials.
  "Well, some one," he said. "You're sure you didn't?"
  "Certainly," said Carrie. "You know how often he came."
  Drouet paused for a moment and thought.
  "I know what you told me," he said finally.
  He moved nervously about, while Carrie looked at him confusedly.
  "Well, I know that I didn't tell you any such thing as that," said
Carrie, recovering herself.
  "If I were you," went on Drouet, ignoring her last remark, "I
wouldn't have anything to do with him. He's a married man, you know."
  "Who- who is?" said Carrie, stumbling at the word.
  "Why, Hurstwood," said Drouet, noting the effect and feeling that he
was delivering a telling blow.
  "Hurstwood!" exclaimed Carrie, rising. Her face had changed
several shades since this announcement was made. She looked within and
without herself in a half-dazed way.
  "Who told you this?" she asked, forgetting that her interest was out
of order and exceedingly incriminating.
  "Why, I know it. I've always known it," said Drouet.
  Carrie was feeling about for a right thought. She was making a
most miserable showing, and yet feelings were generating within her
which were anything but crumbling cowardice.
  "I thought I told you," he added.
  "No, you didn't," she contradicted, suddenly recovering her voice.
"You didn't do anything of the kind."
  Drouet listened to her in astonishment. This was something new.
  "I thought I did," he said.
  Carrie looked around her very solemnly and then went over to the
window.
  "You oughtn't to have had anything to do with him," said Drouet in
an injured tone, "after all I've done for you."
  "You," said Carrie, "you! What have you done for me?"
  Her little brain had been surging with contradictory feelings- shame
at exposure, shame at Hurstwood's perfidy, anger at Drouet's
deception, the mockery he had made of her. Now one clear idea came
into her head. He was at fault. There was no doubt about it. Why did
he bring Hurstwood out- Hurstwood, a married man, and never say a word
to her? Never mind now about Hurstwood's perfidy- why had he done
this? Why hadn't he warned her? There he stood now, guilty of this
miserable breach of confidence and talking about what he had done
for her!
  "Well, I like that," exclaimed Drouet, little realising the fire his
remark had generated. "I think I've done a good deal."
  "You have, eh?" she answered. "You've deceived me- that's what
you've done. You've brought your friends out here under false
pretences. You've made me out to be- Oh," and with this her voice
broke and she pressed her two little hands together tragically.
  "I don't see what that's got to do with it," said the drummer
quaintly.
  "No," she answered, recovering herself and shutting her teeth.
"No, of course you don't see. There isn't anything you see. You
couldn't have told me in the first place, could you? You had to make
me out wrong until it was too late. Now you come sneaking around
with your information and your talk about what you have done."
  Drouet had never suspected this side of Carrie's nature. She was
alive with feeling, her eyes snapping, her lips quivering, her whole
body sensible of the injury she felt, and partaking of her wrath.
  "Who's sneaking?" he asked, mildly conscious of error on his part,
but certain that he was wronged.
  "You are," stamped Carrie. "You're a horrid, conceited coward,
that's what you are. If you had any sense of manhood in you, you
wouldn't have thought of doing any such thing."
  The drummer stared.
  "I'm not a coward," he said. "What do you mean by going with other
men, anyway?"
  "Other men!" exclaimed Carrie. "Other men- you know better than
that. I did go with Mr. Hurstwood, but whose fault was it? Didn't
you bring him here? You told him yourself that he should come out here
and take me out. Now, after it's all over, you come and tell me that I
oughtn't to go with him and that he's a married man."
  She paused at the sound of the last two words and wrung her hands.
The knowledge of Hurstwood's perfidy wounded her like a knife.
  "Oh," she sobbed, repressing herself wonderfully and keeping her
eyes dry. "Oh, oh!"
  "Well, I didn't think you'd be running around with him when I was
away," insisted Drouet.
  "Didn't think!" said Carrie, now angered to the core by the man's
peculiar attitude. "Of course not. You thought only of what would be
to your satisfaction. You thought you'd make a toy of me- a plaything.
Well, I'll show you that you won't. I'll have nothing more to do
with you at all. You can take your old things and keep them," and
unfastening a little pin he had given her, she flung it vigorously
upon the floor and began to move about as if to gather up the things
which belonged to her.
  By this Drouet was not only irritated but fascinated the more. He
looked at her in amazement, and finally said:
  "I don't see where your wrath comes in. I've got the right of this
thing. You oughtn't to have done anything that wasn't right after
all I did for you."
  "What have you done for me?" asked Carrie blazing, her head thrown
back and her lips parted.
  "I think I've done a good deal," said the drummer, looking around.
"I've given you all the clothes you wanted, haven't I? I've taken
you everywhere you wanted to go. You've had as much as I've had, and
more too."
  Carrie was not ungrateful, whatever else might be said of her. In so
far as her mind could construe, she acknowledged benefits received.
She hardly knew how to answer this, and yet her wrath was not
placated. She felt that the drummer had injured her irreparably.
  "Did I ask you to?" she returned.
  "Well, I did it," said Drouet, "and you took it."
  "You talk as though I had persuaded you," answered Carrie. "You
stand there and throw up what you've done. I don't want your old
things. I'll not have them. You take them to-night and do what you
please with them. I'll not stay here another minute."
  "That's nice!" he answered, becoming angered now at the sense of his
own approaching loss. "Use everything and abuse me and then walk
off. That's just like a woman. I take you when you haven't got
anything, and then when some one else comes along, why I'm no good.
I always thought it'd come out that way."
  He felt really hurt as he thought of his treatment, and looked as if
he saw no way of obtaining justice.
  "It's not so," said Carrie, "and I'm not going with anybody else.
You have been as miserable and inconsiderate as you can be. I hate
you, I tell you, and I wouldn't live with you another minute. You're a
big, insulting"- here she hesitated and used no word at all- "or you
wouldn't talk that way."
  She had secured her hat and jacket and slipped the latter on over
her little evening dress. Some wisps of wavy hair had loosened from
the bands at the side of her head and were straggling over her hot,
red cheeks. She was angry, mortified, grief-stricken. Her large eyes
were full of the anguish of tears, but her lids were not yet wet.
She was distracted and uncertain, deciding and doing things without an
aim or conclusion, and she had not the slightest conception of how the
whole difficulty would end.
  "Well, that's a fine finish," said Drouet. "Pack up and pull out,
eh? You take the cake. I bet you were knocking around with Hurstwood
or you wouldn't act like that. I don't want the old rooms. You needn't
pull out for me. You can have them for all I care, but b'George, you
haven't done me right."
  "I'll not live with you," said Carrie. "I don't want to live with
you. You've done nothing but brag around ever since you've been here."
  "Aw, I haven't anything of the kind," he answered.
  Carrie walked over to the door.
  "Where are you going?" he said, stepping over and heading her off.
  "Let me out," she said.
  "Where are you going?" he repeated.
  He was, above all, sympathetic, and the sight of Carrie wandering
out, he knew not where, affected him, despite his grievance.
  Carrie merely pulled at the door.
  The strain of the situation was too much for her, however. She
made one more vain effort and then burst into tears.
  "Now, be reasonable, Cad," said Drouet gently. "What do you want
to rush out for this way? You haven't any place to go. Why not stay
here now and be quiet? I'll not bother you. I don't want to stay
here any longer."
  Carrie had gone sobbing from the door to the window. She was so
overcome she could not speak.
  "Be reasonable now," he said. "I don't want to hold you. You can
go if you want to, but why don't you think it over? Lord knows, I
don't want to stop you."
  He received no answer. Carrie was quieting, however, under the
influence of his plea.
  "You stay here now, and I'll go," he added at last.
  Carrie listened to this with mingled feelings. Her mind was shaken
loose from the little mooring of logic that it had. She was stirred by
this thought, angered by that- her own injustice, Hurstwood's,
Drouet's, their respective qualities of kindness and favour, the
threat of the world outside, in which she had failed once before,
the impossibility of this state inside, where the chambers were no
longer justly hers, the effect of the argument upon her nerves, all
combined to make her a mass of jangling fibres- an anchorless,
storm-beaten little craft which could do absolutely nothing but drift.
  "Say," said Drouet, coming over to her after a few moments, with a
new idea, and putting his hand upon her.
  "Don't!" said Carrie, drawing away, but not removing her
handkerchief from her eyes.
  "Never mind about this quarrel now. Let it go. You stay here until
the month's out, anyhow, and then you can tell better what you want to
do. Eh?"
  Carrie made no answer.
  "You'd better do that," he said. "There's no use your packing up
now. You can't go anywhere."
  Still he got nothing for his words.
  "If you'll do that, we'll call it off for the present and I'll get
out."
  Carrie lowered her handkerchief slightly and looked out of the
window.
  "Will you do that?" he asked.
  Still no answer.
  "Will you?" he repeated.
  She only looked vaguely into the street.
  "Aw! come on," he said, "tell me. Will you?"
  "I don't know," said Carrie softly, forced to answer.
  "Promise me you'll do that," he said, "and we'll quit talking
about it. It'll be the best thing for you."
  Carrie heard him, but she could not bring herself to answer
reasonably. She felt that the man was gentle, and that his interest in
her had not abated, and it made her suffer a pang of regret. She was
in a most helpless plight.
  As for Drouet, his attitude had been that of the jealous lover.
Now his feelings were a mixture of anger at deception, sorrow at
losing Carrie, misery at being defeated. He wanted his rights in
some way or other, and yet his rights included the retaining of
Carrie, the making her feel her error.
  "Will you?" he urged.
  "Well, I'll see," said Carrie.
  This left the matter as open as before, but it was something. It
looked as if the quarrel would blow over, if they could only get
some way of talking to one another. Carrie was ashamed, and Drouet
aggrieved. He pretended to take up the task of packing some things
in a valise.
  Now, as Carrie watched him out of the corner of her eye, certain
sound thoughts came into her head. He had erred, true, but what had
she done? He was kindly and good-natured for all his egotism.
Throughout this argument he had said nothing very harsh. On the
other hand there was Hurstwood- a greater deceiver than he. He had
pretended all this affection, all this passion, and he was lying to
her all the while. Oh, the perfidy of men! And she had loved him.
There could be nothing more in that quarter. She would see Hurstwood
no more. She would write him and let him know what she thought.
Thereupon what would she do? Here were these rooms. Here was Drouet,
pleading for her to remain. Evidently things could go on here somewhat
as before, if all were arranged. It would be better than the street,
without a place to lay her head.
  All this she thought of as Drouet rummaged the drawers for collars
and laboured long and painstakingly at finding a shirt-stud. He was in
no hurry to rush this matter. He felt an attraction to Carrie which
would not down. He could not think that the thing would end by his
walking out of the room. There must be some way round, some way to
make her own up that he was right and she was wrong- to patch up a
peace and shut out Hurstwood for ever. Mercy how he turned at the
man's shameless duplicity.
  "Do you think," he said, after a few moments' silence, "that
you'll try and get on the stage?"
  He was wondering what she was intending.
  "I don't know what I'll do yet," said Carrie.
  "If you do, maybe I can help you. I've got a lot of friends in
that line."
  She made no answer to this.
  "Don't go and try to knock around now without any money. Let me help
you," he said. "It's no easy thing to go on your own hook here."
  Carrie only rocked back and forth in her chair.
  "I don't want you to go up against a hard game that way."
  He bestirred himself about some other details and Carrie rocked on.
  "Why don't you tell me all about this thing," he said, after a time,
"and let's call it off? You don't really care for Hurstwood, do you?"
  "Why do you want to start on that again?" said Carrie. "You were
to blame."
  "No, I wasn't," he answered.
  "Yes, you were, too," said Carrie. "You shouldn't have ever told
me such a story as that."
  "But you didn't have much to do with him, did you?" went on
Drouet, anxious for his own peace of mind to get some direct denial
from her.
  "I won't talk about it," said Carrie, pained at the quizzical turn
the peace arrangement had taken.
  "What's the use of acting like that now, Cad?" insisted the drummer,
stopping in his work and putting up a hand expressively. "You might
let me know where I stand, at least."
  "I won't," said Carrie, feeling no refuge but in anger. "Whatever
has happened is your own fault."
  "Then you do care for him?" said Drouet, stopping completely and
experiencing a rush of feeling.
  "Oh, stop!" said Carrie.
  "Well, I'll not be made a fool of," exclaimed Drouet. "You may
trifle around with him if you want to, but you can't lead me. You
can tell me or not, just as you want to, but I won't fool any longer!"
  He shoved the last few remaining things. he had laid out into his
valise and snapped it with a vengeance. Then he grabbed his coat,
which he had laid off to work, picked up his gloves, and started out.
  "You can go to the deuce as far as I am concerned," he said, as he
reached the door. "I'm no sucker," and with that he opened it with a
jerk and closed it equally vigorously.
  Carrie listened at her window view, more astonished than anything
else at this sudden rise of passion in the drummer. She could hardly
believe her senses- so good-natured and tractable had he invariably
been. It was not for her to see the wellspring of human passion. A
real flame of love is a subtle thing. It burns as a
will-o'-the-wisp, dancing onward to fairy lands of delight. It roars
as a furnace. Too often jealousy is the quality upon which it feeds.
                       Chapter XXIV.
             ASHES OF TINDER: A FACE AT THE WINDOW

  That night Hurstwood remained down town entirely, going to the
Palmer House for a bed after his work was through. He was in a fevered
state of mind, owing to the blight his wife's action threatened to
cast upon his entire future. While he was not sure how much
significance might be attached to the threat she had made, he was sure
that her attitude, if long continued, would cause him no end of
trouble. She was determined, and had worsted him in a very important
contest. How would it be from now on? He walked the floor of his
little office, and later that of his room, putting one thing and
another together to no avail.
  Mrs. Hurstwood, on the contrary, had decided not to lose her
advantage by inaction. Now that she had practically cowed him, she
would follow up her work with demands, the acknowledgment of which
would make her word law in the future. He would have to pay her the
money which she would now regularly demand or there would be
trouble. It did not matter what he did. She really did not care
whether he came home any more or not. The household would move along
much more pleasantly without him, and she could do as she wished
without consulting any one. Now she proposed to consult a lawyer and
hire a detective. She would find out at once just what advantages
she could gain.
  Hurstwood walked the floor, mentally arranging the chief points of
his situation. "She has that property in her name," he kept saying
to himself. "What a fool trick that was. Curse it! What a fool move
that was."
  He also thought of his managerial position. "If she raises a row now
I'll lose this thing. They won't have me around if my name gets in the
papers. My friends, too!" He grew more angry as he thought of the talk
any action on her part would create. How would the papers talk about
it? Every man he knew would be wondering. He would have to explain and
deny and make a general mark of himself. Then Moy would come and
confer with him and there would be the devil to pay.
  Many little wrinkles gathered between his eyes as he contemplated
this, and his brow moistened. He saw no solution of anything- not a
loophole left.
  Through all this thoughts of Carrie flashed upon him, and the
approaching affair of Saturday. Tangled as all his matters were, he
did not worry over that. It was the one pleasing thing in this whole
rout of trouble. He could arrange that satisfactorily, for Carrie
would be glad to wait, if necessary. He would see how things turned
out to-morrow, and then he would talk to her. They were going to
meet as usual. He saw only her pretty face and neat figure and
wondered why life was not arranged so that such joy as he found with
her could be steadily maintained. How much more pleasant it would
be. Then he would take up his wife's threat again, and the wrinkles
and moisture would return.
  In the morning he came over from the hotel and opened his mail,
but there was nothing in it outside the ordinary run. For some
reason he felt as if something might come that way, and was relieved
when all the envelopes had been scanned and nothing suspicious
noticed. He began to feel the appetite that had been wanting before he
had reached the office, and decided before going out to the park to
meet Carrie to drop in at the Grand Pacific and have a pot of coffee
and some rolls. While the danger had not lessened, it had not as yet
materialised, and with him no news was good news. If he could only get
plenty of time to think, perhaps something would turn up. Surely,
surely, this thing would not drift along to catastrophe and he not
find a way out.
  His spirits fell, however, when, upon reaching the park, he waited
and waited and Carrie did not come. He held his favourite post for
an hour or more, then arose and began to walk about restlessly.
Could something have happened out there to keep her away? Could she
have been reached by his wife? Surely not. So little did he consider
Drouet that it never once occurred to him to worry about his finding
out. He grew restless as he ruminated, and then decided that perhaps
it was nothing. She had not been able to get away this morning. That
was why no letter notifying him had come. He would get one today. It
would probably be on his desk when he got back. He would look for it
at once.
  After a time he gave up waiting and drearily headed for the
Madison car. To add to his distress, the bright blue sky became
overcast with little fleecy clouds which shut out the sun. The wind
veered to the east, and by the time he reached his office it was
threatening to drizzle all afternoon.
  He went in and examined his letters, but there was nothing from
Carrie. Fortunately, there was nothing from his wife either. He
thanked his stars that he did not have to confront that proposition
just now when he needed to think so much. He walked the floor again,
pretending to be in an ordinary mood, but secretly troubled beyond the
expression of words.
  At one-thirty he went to Rector's for lunch, and when he returned
a messenger was waiting for him. He looked at the little chap with a
feeling of doubt.
  "I'm to bring an answer," said the boy.
  Hurstwood recognised his wife's writing. He tore it open and read
without a show of feeling. It began in the most formal manner and
was sharply and coldly worded throughout.
  "I want you to send the money I asked for at once. I need it to
carry out my plans. You can stay away if you want to. It doesn't
matter in the least. I must have some money. So don't delay, but
send it by the boy."
  When he had finished it, he stood holding it in his hands. The
audacity of the thing took his breath. It roused his ire also- the
deepest element of revolt in him. His first impulse was to write but
four words in reply- "Go to the devil!"- but he compromised by telling
the boy that there would be no reply. Then he sat down in his chair
and gazed without seeing, contemplating the result of his work. What
would she do about that? The confounded wretch! Was she going to try
to bulldoze him into submission? He would go up there and have it
out with her, that's what he would do. She was carrying things with
too high a hand. These were his first thoughts.
  Later, however, his old discretion asserted itself. Something had to
be done. A climax was near and she would not sit idle. He knew her
well enough to know that when she had decided upon a plan she would
follow it up. Possibly matters would go into a lawyer's hands at once.
  "Damn her!" he said softly, with his teeth firmly set, "I'll make it
hot for her if she causes me trouble. I'll make her change her tone if
I have to use force to do it!"
  He arose from his chair and went and looked out into the street. The
long drizzle had begun. Pedestrians had turned up collars, and
trousers at the bottom. Hands were hidden in the pockets of the
umbrellaless; umbrellas were up. The street looked like a sea of round
black cloth roofs, twisting, bobbing, moving. Trucks and vans were
rattling in a noisy line and everywhere men were shielding
themselves as best they could. He scarcely noticed the picture. He was
forever confronting his wife, demanding of her to change her
attitude toward him before he worked her bodily harm.
  At four o'clock another note came, which simply said that if the
money was not forthcoming that evening the matter would be laid before
Fitzgerald and Moy on the morrow, and other steps would be taken to
get it.
  Hurstwood almost exclaimed out loud at the insistency of this thing.
Yes, he would send her the money. He'd take it to her- he would go
up there and have a talk with her, and that at once.
  He put on his hat and looked around for his umbrella. He would
have some arrangement of this thing.
  He called a cab and was driven through the dreary rain to the
North Side. On the way his temper cooled as he thought of the
details of the case. What did she know? What had she done? Maybe she'd
got hold of Carrie, who knows- or Drouet. Perhaps she really had
evidence, and was prepared to fell him as a man does another from
secret ambush. She was shrewd. Why should she taunt him this way
unless she had good grounds?
  He began to wish that he had compromised in some way or other-
that he had sent the money. Perhaps he could do it up here. He would
go in and see, anyhow. He would have no row.
  By the time he reached his own street he was keenly alive to the
difficulties of his situation and wished over and over that some
solution would offer itself, that he could see his way out. He
alighted and went up the steps to the front door, but it was with a
nervous palpitation of the heart. He pulled out his key and tried to
insert it, but another key was on the inside. He shook at the knob,
but the door was locked. Then he rang the bell. No answer. He rang
again- this time harder. Still no answer. He jangled it fiercely
several times in succession, but without avail. Then he went below.
  There was a door which opened under the steps into the kitchen,
protected by an iron grating, intended as a safeguard against
burglars. When he reached this he noticed that it also was bolted
and that the kitchen windows were down. What could it mean? He rang
the bell and then waited. Finally, seeing that no one was coming, he
turned and went back to his cab.
  "I guess they've gone out," he said apologetically to the individual
who was hiding his red face in a loose tarpaulin rain-coat.
  "I saw a young girl up in that winder," returned the cabby.
  Hurstwood looked, but there was no face there now. He climbed
moodily into the cab, relieved and distressed.
  So this was the game, was it? Shut him out and make him pay. Well,
by the Lord, that did beat all!
                       Chapter XXV.
           ASHES OF TINDER: THE LOOSING OF STAYS

  When Hurstwood got back to his office again he was in a greater
quandary than ever. Lord, Lord, he thought, what had he got into?
How could things have taken such a violent turn, and so quickly? He
could hardly realise how it had all come about. It seemed a monstrous,
unnatural, unwarranted condition which had suddenly descended upon him
without his let or hindrance.
  Meanwhile he gave a thought now and then to Carrie. What could be
the trouble in that quarter? No letter had come, no word of any
kind, and yet here it was late in the evening and she had agreed to
meet him that morning. To-morrow they were to have met and gone off-
where? He saw that in the excitement of recent events he had not
formulated a plan upon that score. He was desperately in love, and
would have taken great chances to win her under ordinary
circumstances, but now- now what? Supposing she had found out
something? Supposing she, too, wrote him and told him that she knew
all- that she would have nothing more to do with him? It would be just
like this to happen as things were going now. Meanwhile he had not
sent the money.
  He strolled up and down the polished floor of the resort, his
hands in his pockets, his brow wrinkled, his mouth set. He was getting
some vague comfort out of a good cigar, but it was no panacea for
the ill which affected him. Every once in a while he would clinch
his fingers and tap his foot- signs of the stirring mental process
he was undergoing. His whole nature was vigorously and powerfully
shaken up, and he was finding what limits the mind has to endurance.
He drank more brandy and soda than he had any evening in months. He
was altogether a fine example of great mental perturbation.
  For all his study nothing came of the evening except this- he sent
the money. It was with great opposition, after two or three hours of
the most urgent mental affirmation and denial, that at last he got
an envelope, placed in it the requested amount, and slowly sealed it
up.
  Then he called Harry, the boy of all work around the place.
  "You take this to this address," he said, handing him the
envelope, "and give it to Mrs. Hurstwood."
  "Yes, sir," said the boy.
  "If she isn't there bring it back."
  "Yes, sir."
  "You've seen my wife?" he asked as a precautionary measure as the
boy turned to go.
  "Oh, yes, sir. I know her."
  "All right, now. Hurry right back."
  "Any answer?"
  "I guess not."
  The boy hastened away and the manager fell to his musings. Now he
had done it. There was no use speculating over that. He was beaten for
to-night and he might just as well make the best of it. But, oh, the
wretchedness of being forced this way! He could see her meeting the
boy at the door and smiling sardonically. She would take the
envelope and know that she had triumphed. If he only had that letter
back he wouldn't send it. He breathed heavily and wiped the moisture
from his face.
  For relief, he arose and joined in conversation with a few friends
who were drinking. He tried to get the interest of things about him,
but it was not to be. All the time his thoughts would run out to his
home and see the scene being therein enacted. All the time he was
wondering what she would say when the boy handed her the envelope.
  In about an hour and three-quarters the boy returned. He had
evidently delivered the package, for, as he came up, he made no sign
of taking anything out of his pocket.
  "Well?" said Hurstwood.
  "I gave it to her."
  "My wife?"
  "Yes, sir."
  "Any answer?"
  "She said it was high time."
  Hurstwood scowled fiercely.
  There was no more to be done upon that score that night. He went
on brooding over his situation until midnight, when he repaired
again to the Palmer House. He wondered what the morning would bring
forth, and slept anything but soundly upon it.
  Next day he went again to the office and opened his mail, suspicious
and hopeful of its contents. No word from Carrie. Nothing from his
wife, which was pleasant.
  The fact that he had sent the money and that she had received it
worked to the ease of his mind, for, as the thought that he had done
it receded, his chagrin at it grew less and his hope of peace more. He
fancied, as he sat at his desk, that nothing would be done for a
week or two. Meanwhile, he would have time to think.
  This process of thinking began by a reversion to Carrie and the
arrangement by which he was to get her away from Drouet. How about
that now? His pain at her failure to meet or write him rapidly
increased as he devoted himself to this subject. He decided to write
her care of the West Side Post-office and ask for an explanation, as
well as to have her meet him. The thought that this letter would
probably not reach her until Monday chafed him exceedingly. He must
get some speedier method- but how?
  He thought upon it for a half-hour, not contemplating a messenger or
a cab direct to the house, owing to the exposure of it, but finding
that time was slipping away to no purpose, he wrote the letter and
then began to think again.
  The hours slipped by, and with them the possibility of the union
he had contemplated. He had thought to be joyously aiding Carrie by
now in the task of joining her interests to his, and here it was
afternoon and nothing done. Three o'clock came, four, five, six, and
no letter. The helpless manager paced the floor and grimly endured the
gloom of defeat. He saw a busy Saturday ushered out, the Sabbath in,
and nothing done. All day, the bar being closed, he brooded alone,
shut out from home, from the excitement of his resort, from Carrie,
and without the ability to alter his condition one iota. It was the
worst Sunday he had spent in his life.
  In Monday's second mail he encountered a very legal-looking letter
which held his interest for some time. It bore the imprint of the
law offices of McGregor, James and Hay, and with a very formal "Dear
Sir," and "We beg to state," went on to inform him briefly that they
had been retained by Mrs. Julia Hurstwood to adjust certain matters
which related to her sustenance and property rights, and would he
kindly call and see them about the matter at once.
  He read it through carefully several times, and then merely shook
his head. It seemed as if his family troubles were just beginning.
  "Well!" he said after a time, quite audibly, "I don't know."
  Then he folded it up and put it in his pocket.
  To add to his misery there was no word from Carrie. He was quite
certain now that she knew he was married and was angered at his
perfidy. His loss seemed all the more bitter now that he needed her
most. He thought he would go out and insist on seeing her if she did
not send him word of some sort soon. He was really affected most
miserably of all by this desertion. He had loved her earnestly enough,
but now that the possibility of losing her stared him in the face
she seemed much more attractive. He really pined for a word, and
looked out upon her with his mind's eye in the most wistful manner. He
did not propose to lose her, whatever she might think. Come what
might, he would adjust this matter, and soon. He would go to her and
tell her all his family complications. He would explain to her just
where he stood and how much he needed her. Surely she couldn't go back
on him now? It wasn't possible. He would plead until her anger would
melt- until she would forgive him.
  Suddenly he thought: "Supposing she isn't out there- suppose she has
gone?"
  He was forced to take his feet. It was too much to think of and
sit still.
  Nevertheless, his rousing availed him nothing.
  On Tuesday it was the same way. He did manage to bring himself
into the mood to go out to Carrie, but when he got in Ogden Place he
thought he saw a man watching him and went away. He did not go
within a block of the house.
  One of the galling incidents of this visit was that he came back
on a Randolph Street car, and without noticing arrived almost opposite
the building of the concern with which his son was connected. This
sent a pang through his heart. He had called on his boy there
several times. Now the lad had not sent him a word. His absence did
not seem to be noticed by either of his children. Well, well,
fortune plays a man queer tricks. He got back to his office and joined
in a conversation with friends. It was as if idle chatter deadened the
sense of misery.
  That night he dined at Rector's and returned at once to his
office. In the bustle and show of the latter was his only relief. He
troubled over many little details and talked perfunctorily to
everybody. He stayed at his desk long after all others had gone, and
only quitted it when the night watchman on his round pulled at the
front door to see if it was safely locked.
  On Wednesday, he received another polite note from McGregor, James
and Hay. It read:

  Dear Sir:
  We beg to inform you that we are instructed to wait until tomorrow
(Thursday) at one o'clock, before filing suit against you, on behalf
of Mrs. Julia Hurstwood, for divorce and alimony. If we do not hear
from you before that time we shall consider that you do not wish to
compromise the matter in any way and act accordingly.
                                               Very truly yours, etc.

  "Compromise!" exclaimed Hurstwood bitterly. "Compromise!" Again he
shook his head.
  So here it was spread out clear before him, and now he knew what
to expect. If he didn't go and see them they would sue him promptly.
If he did, he would be offered terms that would make his blood boil.
He folded the letter and put it with the other one. Then he put on his
hat and went for a turn about the block.
                       Chapter XXVI.
        THE AMBASSADOR FALLEN: A SEARCH FOR THE GATE

  Carrie, left alone by Drouet, listened to his retreating steps,
scarcely realising what had happened. She knew that he had stormed
out. It was some moments before she questioned whether he would
return, not now exactly, but ever. She looked around her upon the
rooms, out of which the evening light was dying, and wondered why
she did not feel quite the same towards them. She went over to the
dresser and struck a match, lighting the gas. Then she went back to
the rocker to think.
  It was some time before she could collect her thoughts, but when she
did, this truth began to take on importance. She was quite alone.
Suppose Drouet did not come back? Suppose she should never hear
anything more of him? This fine arrangement of chambers would not last
long. She would have to quit them.
  To her credit, be it said, she never once counted on Hurstwood.
She could only approach that subject with a pang of sorrow and regret.
For a truth, she was rather shocked and frightened by this evidence of
human depravity. He would have tricked her without turning an eyelash.
She would have been led into a newer and worse situation. And yet
she could not keep out the pictures of his looks and manners. Only
this one deed seemed strange and miserable. It contrasted sharply with
all she felt and knew concerning the man.
  But she was alone. That was the greater thought just at present. How
about that? Would she go out to work again? Would she begin to look
around in the business district? The stage! Oh, yes. Drouet had spoken
about that. Was there any hope there? She moved to and fro, in deep
and varied thoughts, while the minutes slipped away and night fell
completely. She had had nothing to eat, and yet there she sat,
thinking it over.
  She remembered that she was hungry and went to the little cupboard
in the rear room where were the remains of one of their breakfasts.
She looked at these things with certain misgivings. The
contemplation of food had more significance than usual.
  While she was eating she began to wonder how much money she had.
It struck her as exceedingly important, and without ado she went to
look for her purse. It was on the dresser, and in it were seven
dollars in bills and some change. She quailed as she thought of the
insignificance of the amount and rejoiced because the rent was paid
until the end of the month. She began also to think what she would
have done if she had gone out into the street when she first
started. By the side of that situation, as she looked at it now, the
present seemed agreeable. She had a little time at least, and then,
perhaps, everything would come out all right, after all.
  Drouet had gone, but what of it? He did not seem seriously angry. He
only acted as if he were hurry. He would come back- of course he
would. There was his cane in the corner. Here was one of his
collars. He had left his light overcoat in the wardrobe. She looked
about and tried to assure herself with the sight of a dozen such
details, but, alas, the secondary thought arrived. Supposing he did
come back. Then what?
  Here was another proposition nearly, if not quite, as disturbing.
She would have to talk with and explain to him. He would want her to
admit that he was right. It would be impossible for her to live with
him.
  On Friday Carrie remembered her appointment with Hurstwood, and
the passing of the hour when she should, by all right of promise, have
been in his company served to keep the calamity which had befallen her
exceedingly fresh and clear. In her nervousness and stress of mind she
felt it necessary to act, and consequently put on a brown street
dress, and at eleven o'clock started to visit the business portion
once again. She must look for work.
  The rain, which threatened at twelve and began at one, served
equally well to cause her to retrace her steps and remain within doors
as it did to reduce Hurstwood's spirits and give him a wretched day.
  The morrow was Saturday, a half-holiday in many business quarters,
and besides it was a balmy, radiant day, with the trees and grass
shining exceedingly green after the rain of the night before. When she
went out the sparrows were twittering merrily in joyous choruses.
She could not help feeling, as she looked across the lovely park, that
life was a joyous thing for those who did not need to worry, and she
wished over and over that something might interfere now to preserve
for her the comfortable state which she had occupied. She did not want
Drouet or his money when she thought of it, nor anything more to do
with Hurstwood, but only the content and ease of mind she had
experienced, for, after all, she had been happy- happier, at least,
than she was now when confronted by the necessity of making her way
alone.
  When she arrived in the business part it was quite eleven o'clock,
and the business had little longer to run. She did not realise this at
first, being affected by some of the old distress which was a result
of her earlier adventure into this strenuous and exacting quarter. She
wandered about, assuring herself that she was making up her mind to
look for something, and at the same time feeling that perhaps it was
not necessary to be in such haste about it. The thing was difficult to
encounter, and she had a few days. Besides, she was not sure that
she was really face to face again with the bitter problem of
self-sustenance. Anyhow, there was one change for the better. She knew
that she had improved in appearance. Her manner had vastly changed.
Her clothes were becoming, and men- well-dressed men, some of the kind
who before had gazed at her indifferently from behind their polished
railings and imposing office partitions- now gazed into her face
with a soft light in their eyes. In a way, she felt the power and
satisfaction of the thing, but it did not wholly reassure her. She
looked for nothing save what might come legitimately and without the
appearance of special favour. She wanted something, but no man
should buy her by false protestations or favour. She proposed to
earn her living honestly.
  "This store closes at one on Saturdays," was a pleasing and
satisfactory legend to see upon doors which she felt she ought to
enter and inquire for work. It gave her an excuse, and after
encountering quite a number of them, and noting that the clock
registered 12.15, she decided that it would be no use to seek
further to-day, so she got on a car and went to Lincoln Park. There
was always something to see there- the flowers, the animals, the lake-
and she flattered herself that on Monday she would be up betimes and
searching. Besides, many things might happen between now and Monday.
  Sunday passed with equal doubts, worries, assurances, and heaven
knows what vagaries of mind and spirit. Every half-hour in the day the
thought would come to her most sharply, like the tail of a swishing
whip, that action- immediate action- was imperative. At other times
she would look about her and assure herself that things were not so
bad- that certainly she would come out safe and sound. At such times
she would think of Drouet's advice about going on the stage, and saw
some chance for herself in that quarter. She decided to take up that
opportunity on the morrow.
  Accordingly, she arose early Monday morning and dressed herself
carefully. She did not know just how such applications were made,
but she took it to be a matter which related more directly to the
theatre buildings. All you had to do was to inquire of some one
about the theatre for the manager and ask for a position. If there was
anything, you might get it, or, at least, he could tell you how.
  She had had no experience with this class of individuals whatsoever,
and did not know the salacity and humour of the theatrical tribe.
She only knew of the position which Mr. Hale occupied, but, of all
things, she did not wish to encounter that personage, on account of
her intimacy with his wife.
  There was, however, at this time, one theatre, the Chicago Opera
House, which was considerably in the public eye, and its manager,
David A. Henderson, had a fair local reputation. Carrie had seen one
or two elaborate performances there and had heard of several others.
She knew nothing of Henderson nor of the methods of applying, but
she instinctively felt that this would be a likely place, and
accordingly strolled about in that neighbourhood. She came bravely
enough to the showy entrance way, with the polished and begilded
lobby, set with framed pictures out of the current attraction, leading
up to the quiet box-office, but she could get no further. A noted
comic opera comedian was holding forth that week, and the air of
distinction and prosperity overawed her. She could not imagine that
there would be anything in such a lofty sphere for her. She almost
trembled at the audacity which might have carried her on to a terrible
rebuff. She could find heart only to look at the pictures which were
showy and then walk out. It seemed to her as if she had made a
splendid escape and that it would be foolhardy to think of applying in
that quarter again.
  This little experience settled her hunting for one day. She looked
around elsewhere, but it was from the outside. She got the location of
several playhouses fixed in her mind- notably the Grand Opera House
and McVickar's, both of which were leading in attractions- and then
came away. Her spirits were materially reduced, owing to the newly
restored sense of magnitude of the great interests and the
insignificance of her claims upon society, such as she understood them
to be.
  That night she was visited by Mrs. Hale, whose chatter and
protracted stay made it impossible to dwell upon her predicament or
the fortune of the day. Before retiring, however, she sat down to
think, and gave herself up to the most gloomy forebodings. Drouet
had not put in an appearance. She had had no word from any quarter,
she had spent a dollar of her precious sum in procuring food and
paying car fare. It was evident that she would not endure long.
Besides, she had discovered no resource.
  In this situation her thoughts went out to her sister in Van Buren
Street, whom she had not seen since the night of her flight, and to
her home at Columbia City, which seemed now a part of something that
could not be again. She looked for no refuge in that direction.
Nothing but sorrow was brought her by thoughts of Hurstwood, which
would return. That he could have chosen to dupe her in so ready a
manner seemed a cruel thing.
  Tuesday came, and with it appropriate indecision and speculation.
She was in no mood, after her failure of the day before, to hasten
forth upon her work-seeking errand, and yet she rebuked herself for
what she considered her weakness the day before. Accordingly she
started out to revisit the Chicago Opera House, but possessed scarcely
enough courage to approach.
  She did manage to inquire at the box-office, however.
  "Manager of the company or the house?" asked the smartly dressed
individual who took care of the tickets. He was favourably impressed
by Carrie's looks.
  "I don't know," said Carrie, taken back by the question.
  "You couldn't see the manager of the house to-day, anyhow,"
volunteered the young man. "He's out of town."
  He noted her puzzled look, and then added: "What is it you wish to
see about?"
  "I want to see about getting a position," she answered.
  "You'd better see the manager of the company," he returned, "but
he isn't here now."
  "When will he be in?" asked Carrie, somewhat relieved by this
information.
  "Well, you might find him in between eleven and twelve. He's here
after two o'clock."
  Carrie thanked him and walked briskly out, while the young man gazed
after her through one of the side windows of his gilded coop.
  "Good-looking," he said to himself, and proceeded to visions of
condescensions on her part which were exceedingly flattering to
himself.
  One of the principal comedy companies of the day was playing an
engagement at the Grand opera House. Here Carrie asked to see the
manager of the company. She little knew the trivial authority of
this individual, or that had there been a vacancy an actor would
have been sent on from New York to fill it.
  "His office is upstairs," said a man in the box-office.
  Several persons were in the manager's office, two lounging near a
window, another talking to an individual sitting at a roll-top desk-
the manager. Carrie glanced nervously about, and began to fear that
she should have to make her appeal before the assembled company, two
of whom- the occupants of the window- were already observing her
carefully.
  "I can't do it," the manager was saying; "it's a rule of Mr.
Frohman's never to allow visitors back of the stage. No, no!"
  Carrie timidly waited, standing. There were chairs, but no one
motioned her to be seated. The individual to whom the manager had been
talking went away quite crest-fallen. That luminary gazed earnestly at
some papers before him, as if they were of the greatest concern.
  "Did you see that in the 'Herald' this morning about Nat Goodwin,
Harris?"
  "No," said the person addressed. "What was it?"
  "Made quite a curtain address at Hooley's last night. Better look it
up."
  Harris reached over to a table and began to look for the "Herald."
  "What is it?" said the manager to Carrie, apparently noticing her
for the first time. He thought he was going to be held up for free
tickets.
  Carrie summoned up all her courage, which was little at best. She
realised that she was a novice, and felt as if a rebuff were
certain. Of this she was so sure that she only wished now to pretend
she had called for advice.
  "Can you tell me how to go about getting on the stage?"
  It was the best way after all to have gone about the matter. She was
interesting, in a manner, to the occupant of the chair, and the
simplicity of her request and attitude took his fancy. He smiled, as
did the others in the room, who, however, made some slight effort to
conceal their humour.
  "I don't know," he answered, looking her brazenly over. "Have you
ever had any experience upon the stage?"
  "A little," answered Carrie. "I have taken part in amateur
performances."
  She thought she had to make some sort of showing in order to
retain his interest.
  "Never studied for the stage?" he said, putting on an air intended
as much to impress his friends with his discretion as Carrie.
  "No, sir."
  "Well, I don't know," he answered, tipping lazily back in his
chair while she stood before him. "What makes you want to get on the
stage?"
  She felt abashed at the man's daring, but could only smile in answer
to his engaging smirk, and say:
  "I need to make a living."
  "Oh," he answered, rather taken by her trim appearance, and
feeling as if he might scrape up an acquaintance with her. "That's a
good reason, isn't it? Well, Chicago is not a good place for what
you want to do. You ought to be in New York. There's more chance
there. You could hardly expect to get started out here."
  Carrie smiled genially, grateful that he should condescend to advise
her even so much. He noticed the smile, and put a slightly different
construction on it. He thought he saw an easy chance for a little
flirtation.
  "Sit down," he said, pulling a chair forward from the side of his
desk and dropping his voice so that the two men in the room should not
hear. Those two gave each other the suggestion of a wink.
  "Well, I'll be going, Barney," said one, breaking away and so
addressing the manager. "See you this afternoon."
  "All right," said the manager.
  The remaining individual took up a paper as if to read.
  "Did you have any idea what sort of part you would like to get?"
asked the manager softly.
  "Oh, no," said Carrie. "I would take anything to begin with."
  "I see," he said. "Do you live here in the city?"
  "Yes, sir."
  The manager smiled most blandly.
  "Have you ever tried to get in as a chorus girl?" he asked, assuming
a more confidential air.
  Carrie began to feel that there was something exuberant and
unnatural in his manner.
  "No," she said.
  "That's the way most girls begin," he went on, "who go on the stage.
It's a good way to get experience."
  He was turning on her a glance of the companionable and persuasive
manner.
  "I didn't know that," said Carrie.
  "It's a difficult thing," he went on, "but there's always a
chance, you know." Then, as if he suddenly remembered, he pulled out
his watch and consulted it. "I've an appointment at two," he said,
"and I've got to go to lunch now. Would you care to come and dine with
me? We can talk it over there."
  "Oh, no," said Carrie, the whole motive of the man flashing on her
at once. "I have an engagement myself."
  "That's too bad," he said, realising that he had been a little
beforehand in his offer and that Carrie was about to go away. "Come in
later. I may know of something."
  "Thank you," she answered, with some trepidation, and went out.
  "She was good-looking, wasn't she?" said the manager's companion,
who had not caught all the details of the game he had played.
  "Yes, in a way," said the other, sore to think the game had been
lost. "She'd never make an actress, though. Just another chorus
girl-that's all."
  This little experience nearly destroyed her ambition to call upon
the manager at the Chicago Opera House, but she decided to do so after
a time. He was of a more sedate turn of mind. He said at once that
there was no opening of any sort, and seemed to consider her search
foolish.
  "Chicago is no place to get a start," he said. "You ought to be in
New York."
  Still she persisted, and went to McVickar's, where she could not
find any one. "The Old Homestead" was running there, but the person to
whom she was referred was not to be found.
  These little expeditions took up her time until quite four
o'clock, when she was weary enough to go home. She felt as if she
ought to continue and inquire elsewhere, but the results so far were
too dispiriting. She took the car and arrived at Ogden Place in
three-quarters of an hour, but decided to ride on to the West Side
branch of the Post-office, where she was accustomed to receive
Hurstwood's letters. There was one there now, written Saturday,
which she tore open and read with mingled feelings. There was so
much warmth in it and such tense complaint at her having failed to
meet him, and her subsequent silence, that she rather pitied the
man. That he loved her was evident enough. That he had wished and
dared to do so, married as he was, was the evil. She felt as if the
thing deserved an answer, and consequently decided that she would
write and let him know that she knew of his married state and was
justly incensed at his deception. She would tell him that it was all
over between them.
  At her room, the wording of this missive occupied her for some time,
for she fell to the task at once. It was most difficult.
  "You do not need to have me explain why I did not meet you," she
wrote in part. "How could you deceive me so? You cannot expect me to
have anything more to do with you. I wouldn't under any circumstances.
Oh, how could you act so?" she added in a burst of feeling. "You
have caused me more misery than you can think. I hope you will get
over your infatuation for me. We must not meet any more. Good-bye."
  She took the letter the next morning, and at the corner dropped it
reluctantly into the letter-box, still uncertain as to whether she
should do so or not. Then she took the car and went down town.
  This was the dull season with the department stores, but she was
listened to with more consideration than was usually accorded to young
women applicants, owing to her neat and attractive appearance. She was
asked the same old questions with which she was already familiar.
  "What can you do? Have you ever worked in a retail store before? Are
you experienced?"
  At The Fair, See and Company's, and all the great stores it was much
the same. It was the dull season, she might come in a little later,
possibly they would like to have her.
  When she arrived at the house at the end of the day, weary and
disheartened, she discovered that Drouet had been there. His
umbrella and light overcoat were gone. She thought she missed other
things, but could not be sure. Everything had not been taken.
  So his going was crystallising into staying. What was she to do now?
Evidently she would be facing the world in the same old way within a
day or two. Her clothes would get poor. She put her two hands together
in her customary expressive way and pressed her fingers. Large tears
gathered in her eyes and broke hot across her cheeks. She was alone,
very much alone.
  Drouet really had called, but it was with a very different mind from
that which Carrie had imagined. He expected to find her, to justify
his return by claiming that he came to get the remaining portion of
his wardrobe, and before he got away again to patch up a peace.
  Accordingly, when he arrived, he was disappointed to find Carrie
out. He trifled about, hoping that she was somewhere in the
neighbourhood and would soon return. He constantly listened, expecting
to hear her foot on the stair.
  When he did so, it was his intention to make believe that he had
just come in and was disturbed at being caught. Then he would
explain his need of his clothes and find out how things stood.
  Wait as he did, however, Carrie did not come. From pottering
around among the drawers, in momentary expectation of her arrival,
he changed to looking out of the window, and from that to resting
himself in the rocking-chair. Still no Carrie. He began to grow
restless and lit a cigar. After that he walked the floor. Then he
looked out of the window and saw clouds gathering. He remembered an
appointment at three. He began to think that it would be useless to
wait, and got hold of his umbrella and light coat, intending to take
these things, any way. It would scare her, he hoped. To-morrow he
would come back for the others. He would find out how things stood.
  As he started to go he felt truly sorry that he had missed her.
There was a little picture of her on the wall, showing her arrayed
in the little jacket he had first bought her- her face a little more
wistful than he had seen it lately. He was really touched by it, and
looked into the eyes of it with a rather rare feeling for him.
  "You didn't do me right, Cad," he said, as if he were addressing her
in the flesh.
  Then he went to the door, took a good look around, and went out.
                      Chapter XXVII.
         WHEN WATERS ENGULF US WE REACH FOR A STAR

  It was when he returned from his disturbed stroll about the streets,
after receiving the decisive note from McGregor, James and Hay, that
Hurstwood found the letter Carrie had written him that morning. He
thrilled intensely as he noted the handwriting, and rapidly tore it
open.
  "Then," he thought, "she loves me or she would not have written to
me at all."
  He was slightly depressed at the tenor of the note for the first few
minutes, but soon recovered. "She wouldn't write at all if she
didn't care for me."
  This was his one resource against the depression which held him.
He could extract little from the wording of the letter, but the spirit
he thought he knew.
  There was really something exceedingly human- if not pathetic- in
his being thus relieved by a clearly worded reproof. He who had for so
long remained satisfied with himself now looked outside of himself for
comfort- and to such a source. The mystic cords of affection! How they
bind us all.
  The colour came to his cheeks. For the moment he forgot the letter
from McGregor, James and Hay. If he could only have Carrie, perhaps he
could get out of the whole entanglement- perhaps it would not
matter. He wouldn't care what his wife did with herself if only he
might not lose Carrie. He stood up and walked about, dreaming his
delightful dream of a life continued with this lovely possessor of his
heart.
  It was not long, however, before the old worry was back for
consideration, and with it what weariness! He thought of the morrow
and the suit. He had done nothing, and here was the afternoon slipping
away. It was now a quarter of four. At five the attorneys would have
gone home. He still had the morrow until noon. Even as he thought, the
last fifteen minutes passed away and it was five. Then he abandoned
the thought of seeing them any more that day and turned to Carrie.
  It is to be observed that the man did not justify himself to
himself. He was not troubling about that. His whole thought was the
possibility of persuading Carrie. Nothing was wrong in that. He
loved her dearly. Their mutual happiness depended upon it. Would
that Drouet were only away!
  While he was thinking thus elatedly, he remembered that he wanted
some clean linen in the morning.
  This he purchased, together with a half-dozen ties, and went to
the Palmer House. As he entered he thought he saw Drouet ascending the
stairs with a key. Surely not Drouet! Then he thought, perhaps they
had changed their abode temporarily. He went straight up to the desk.
  "Is Mr. Drouet stopping here?" he asked of the clerk.
  "I think he is," said the latter, consulting his private registry
list. "Yes."
  "Is that so?" exclaimed Hurstwood, otherwise concealing his
astonishment. "Alone?" he added.
  "Yes," said the clerk.
  Hurstwood turned away and set his lips so as best to express and
conceal his feelings.
  "How's that?" he thought. "They've had a row."
  He hastened to his room with rising spirits and changed his linen.
As he did so, he made up his mind that if Carrie was alone, or if
she had gone to another place, it behooved him to find out. He decided
to call at once.
  "I know what I'll do," he thought. "I'll go to the door and ask if
Mr. Drouet is at home. That will bring out whether he is there or
not and where Carrie is."
  He was almost moved to some muscular display as he thought of it. He
decided to go immediately after supper.
  On coming down from his room at six, he looked carefully about to
see if Drouet was present and then went out to lunch. He could
scarcely eat, however, he was so anxious to be about his errand.
Before starting he thought it well to discover where Drouet would
be, and returned to his hotel.
  "Has Mr. Drouet gone out?" he asked of the clerk.
  "No," answered the latter, "he's in his room. Do you wish to send up
a card?"
  "No, I'll call around later," answered Hurstwood, and strolled out.
  He took a Madison car and went direct to Ogden Place, this time
walking boldly up to the door. The chambermaid answered his knock.
  "Is Mr. Drouet in?" said Hurstwood blandly.
  "He is out of the city," said the girl, who had heard Carrie tell
this to Mrs. Hale.
  "Is Mrs. Drouet in?"
  "No, she has gone to the theatre."
  "Is that so?" said Hurstwood, considerably taken back; then, as if
burdened with something important, "You don't know to which theatre?"
  The girl really had no idea where she had gone, but not liking
Hurstwood, and wishing to cause him trouble, answered: "Yes,
Hooley's."
  "Thank you," returned the manager, and tipping his hat slightly,
went away.
  "I'll look in at Hooley's," thought he, but as a matter of fact he
did not. Before he had reached the central portion of the city he
thought the whole matter over and decided it would be useless. As much
as he longed to see Carrie, he knew she would be with some one and did
not wish to intrude with his plea there. A little later he might do
so- in the morning. Only in the morning he had the lawyer question
before him.
  This little pilgrimage threw quite a wet blanket upon his rising
spirits. He was soon down again to his old worry, and reached the
resort anxious to find relief. Quite a company of gentlemen were
making the place lively with their conversation. A group of Cook
County politicians were conferring about a round cherry-wood table
in the rear portion of the room. Several young merry-makers were
chattering at the bar before making a belated visit to the theatre.
A shabbily-genteel individual, with a red nose and an old high hat,
was sipping a quiet glass of ale alone at one end of the bar.
Hurstwood nodded to the politicians and went into his office.
  About ten o'clock a friend of his, Mr. Frank L. Taintor, a local
sport and racing man, dropped in, and seeing Hurstwood alone in his
office came to the door.
  "Hello, George!" he exclaimed.
  "How are you, Frank?" said Hurstwood, somewhat relieved by the sight
of him. "Sit down," and he motioned him to one of the chairs in the
little room.
  "What's the matter, George?" asked Taintor. "You look a little glum.
Haven't lost at the track, have you?"
  "I'm not feeling very well to-night. I had a slight cold the other
day."
  "Take whiskey, George," said Taintor. "You ought to know that."
  Hurstwood smiled.
  While they were still conferring there, several other of Hurstwood's
friends entered, and not long after eleven, the theatres being out,
some actors began to drop in- among them some notabilities.
  Then began one of those pointless social conversations so common
in America resorts where the would-be gilded attempt to rub off gilt
from those who have it in abundance. If Hurstwood had one leaning,
it was toward notabilities. He considered that, if anywhere, he
belonged among them. He was too proud to toady, too keen not to
strictly observe the plane he occupied when there were those present
who did not appreciate him, but, in situations like the present, where
he could shine as a gentleman and be received without equivocation
as a friend and equal among men of known ability, he was most
delighted. It was on such occasions, if ever, that he would "take
something." When the social flavour was strong enough he would even
unbend to the extent of drinking glass for glass with his
associates, punctiliously observing his turn to pay as if he were an
outsider like the others. If he ever approached intoxication- or
rather that ruddy warmth and comfortableness which precedes the more
sloven state- it was when individuals such as these were gathered
about him, when he was one of a circle of chatting celebrities.
To-night, disturbed as was his state, he was rather relieved to find
company, and now that notabilities were gathered, he laid aside his
troubles for the nonce, and joined in right heartily.
  It was not long before the imbibing began to tell. Stories began
to crop up- those ever-enduring, droll stories which form the major
portion of the conversation among American men under such
circumstances.
  Twelve o'clock arrived, the hour for closing, and with it the
company took leave. Hurstwood shook hands with them most cordially. He
was very roseate physically. He had arrived at that state where his
mind, though clear, was, nevertheless, warm in its fancies. He felt as
if his troubles were not very serious. Going into his office, he began
to turn over certain accounts, awaiting the departure of the
bartenders and the cashier, who soon left.
  It was the manager's duty, as well as his custom, after all were
gone to see that everything was safely closed up for the night. As a
rule, no money except the cash taken in after banking hours was kept
about the place, and that was locked in the safe by the cashier,
who, with the owners, was joint keeper of the secret combination, but,
nevertheless, Hurstwood nightly took the precaution to try the cash
drawers and the safe in order to see that they were tightly closed.
Then he would lock his own little office and set the proper light
burning near the safe, after which he would take his departure.
  Never in his experience had he found anything out of order, but
to-night, after shutting down his desk, he came out and tried the
safe. His way was to give a sharp pull. This time the door
responded. He was slightly surprised at that, and looking in found the
money cases as left for the day, apparently unprotected. His first
thought was, of course, to inspect the drawers and shut the door.
  "I'll speak to Mayhew about this to-morrow," he thought.
  The latter had certainly imagined upon going out a half-hour
before that he had turned the knob on the door so as to spring the
lock. He had never failed to do so before. But to-night Mayhew had
other thoughts. He had been revolving the problem of a business of his
own.
  "I'll look in here," thought the manager, pulling out the money
drawers. He did not know why he wished to look in there. It was
quite a superfluous action, which another time might not have happened
at all.
  As he did so, a layer of bills, in parcels of a thousand, such as
banks issue, caught his eye. He could not tell how much they
represented, but paused to view them. Then he pulled out the second of
the cash drawers. In that were the receipts of the day.
  "I didn't know Fitzgerald and Moy ever left any money this way," his
mind said to itself. "They must have forgotten it."
  He looked at the other drawer and paused again.
  "Count them," said a voice in his ear.
  He put his hand into the first of the boxes and lifted the stack,
letting the separate parcels fall. They were bills of fifty and one
hundred dollars done in packages of a thousand. He thought he
counted ten such.
  "Why don't I shut the safe?" his mind said to itself, lingering.
"What makes me pause here?"
  For answer there came the strangest words:
  "Did you ever have ten thousand dollars in ready money?"
  Lo, the manager remembered that he had never had so much. All his
property had been slowly accumulated, and now his wife owned that.
He was worth more than forty thousand, all told- but she would get
that.
  He puzzled as he thought of these things, then pushed in the drawers
and closed the door, pausing with his hand upon the knob, which
might so easily lock it all beyond temptation. Still he paused.
Finally he went to the windows and pulled down the curtains. Then he
tried the door, which he had previously locked. What was this thing,
making him suspicious? Why did he wish to move about so quietly. He
came back to the end of the counter as if to rest his arm and think.
Then he went and unlocked his little office door and turned on the
light. He also opened his desk, sitting down before it, only to
think strange thoughts.
  "The safe is open," said a voice. "There is just the least little
crack in it. The lock has not been sprung."
  The manager floundered among a jumble of thoughts. Now all the
entanglement of the day came back. Also the thought that here was a
solution. That money would do it. If he had that and Carrie. He rose
up and stood stock-still, looking at the floor.
  "What about it?" his mind asked, and for answer he put his hand
slowly up and scratched his head.
  The manager was no fool to be led blindly away by such an errant
proposition as this, but his situation was peculiar. Wine was in his
veins. It had crept up into his head and given him a warm view of
the situation. It also coloured the possibilities of ten thousand
for him. He could see great opportunities with that. He could get
Carrie. Oh, yes, he could! He could get rid of his wife. That
letter, too, was waiting discussion to-morrow morning. He would not
need to answer that. He went back to the safe and put his hand on
the knob. Then he pulled the door open and took the drawer with the
money quite out.
  With it once out and before him, it seemed a foolish thing to
think about leaving it. Certainly it would. Why, he could live quietly
with Carrie for years.
  Lord! what was that? For the first time he was tense, as if a
stern hand had been laid upon his shoulder. He looked fearfully
around. Not a soul was present. Not a sound. Some one was shuffling by
on the sidewalk. He took the box and the money and put it back in
the safe. Then he partly closed the door again.
  To those who have never wavered in conscience, the predicament of
the individual whose mind is less strongly constituted and who
trembles in the balance between duty and desire is scarcely
appreciable, unless graphically portrayed. Those who have never
heard that solemn voice of the ghostly clock which ticks with awful
distinctness, "thou shalt," "thou shalt not," "thou shalt," "thou
shalt not," are in no position to judge. Not alone in sensitive,
highly organised natures is such a mental conflict possible. The
dullest specimen of humanity, when drawn by desire toward evil, is
recalled by a sense of right, which is proportionate in power and
strength to his evil tendency. We must remember that it may not be a
knowledge of right, for no knowledge of right is predicated of the
animal's instinctive recoil at evil. Men are still led by instinct
before they are regulated by knowledge. It is instinct which recalls
the criminal- it is instinct (where highly organised reasoning is
absent) which gives the criminal his feeling of danger, his fear of
wrong.
  At every first adventure, then, into some untried evil, the mind
wavers. The clock of thought ticks out its wish and its denial. To
those who have never experienced such a mental dilemma, the
following will appeal on the simple ground of revelation.
  When Hurstwood put the money back, his nature again resumed its ease
and daring. No one had observed him. He was quite alone. No one
could tell what he wished to do. He could work this thing out for
himself.
  The imbibation of the evening had not yet worn off. Moist as was his
brow, tremble as did his hand once after the nameless fright, he was
still flushed with the fumes of liquor. He scarcely noticed that the
time was passing. He went over his situation once again, his eye
always seeing the money in a lump, his mind always seeing what it
would do. He strolled into his little room, then to the door, then
to the safe again. He put his hand on the knob and opened it. There
was the money! Surely no harm could come from looking at it!
  He took out the drawer again and lifted the bills. They were so
smooth, so compact, so portable. How little they made, after all. He
decided he would take them. Yes, he would. He would put them in his
pocket. Then he looked at that and saw they would not go there. His
hand satchel! To be sure, his hand satchel. They would go in that- all
of it would. No one would think anything of it either. He went into
the little office and took it from the shelf in the corner. Now he set
it upon his desk and went out toward the safe. For some reason he
did not want to fill it out in the big room.
  First he brought the bills and then the loose receipts of the day.
He would take it all. He put the empty drawers back and pushed the
iron door almost to, then stood beside it meditating.
  The wavering of a mind under such circumstances is an almost
inexplicable thing, and yet it is absolutely true. Hurstwood could not
bring himself to act definitely. He wanted to think about it- to
ponder over it, to decide whether it were best. He was drawn by such a
keen desire for Carrie, driven by such a state of turmoil in his own
affairs that he thought constantly it would be best, and yet he
wavered. He did not know what evil might result from it to him- how
soon he might come to grief. The true ethics of the situation never
once occurred to him, and never would have, under any circumstances.
  After he had all the money in the hand bag, a revulsion of feeling
seized him. He would not do it- no! Think of what a scandal it would
make. The police! They would be after him. He would have to fly, and
where? Oh, the terror of being a fugitive from justice! He took out
the two boxes and put all the money back. In his excitement he
forgot what he was doing, and put the sums in the wrong boxes. As he
pushed the door to, he thought he remembered doing it wrong and opened
the door again. There were the two boxes mixed.
  He took them out and straightened the matter, but now the terror had
gone. Why be afraid?
  While the money was in his hand the lock clicked. It had sprung! Did
he do it? He grabbed at the knob and pulled vigorously. It had closed.
Heavens! he was in for it now, sure enough.
  The moment he realised that the safe was locked for a surety, the
sweat burst out upon his brow and he trembled violently. He looked
about him and decided instantly. There was no delaying now.
  "Supposing I do lay it on the top," he said, "and go away, they'll
know who took it. I'm the last to close up. Besides, other things will
happen."
  At once he became the man of action.
  "I must get out of this," he thought.
  He hurried into his little room, took down his light overcoat and
hat, locked his desk, and grabbed the satchel. Then he turned out
all but one light and opened the door. He tried to put on his old
assured air, but it was almost gone. He was repenting rapidly.
  "I wish I hadn't done that," he said. "That was a mistake."
  He walked steadily down the street, greeting a night watchman whom
he knew who was trying doors. He must get out of the city, and that
quickly.
  "I wonder how the trains run?" he thought.
  Instantly he pulled out his watch and looked. It was nearly
half-past one.
  At the first drug store he stopped, seeing a long-distance telephone
booth inside. It was a famous drug store, and contained one of the
first private telephone booths ever erected.
  "I want to use your 'phone a minute," he said to the night clerk.
  The latter nodded.
  "Give me 1643," he called to Central, after looking up the
Michigan Central depot number. Soon he got the ticket agent.
  "How do the trains leave here for Detroit?" he asked.
  The man explained the hours.
  "No more to-night?"
  "Nothing with a sleeper. Yes, there is, too," he added. "There is
a mail train out of here at three o'clock."
  "All right," said Hurstwood. "What time does that get to Detroit?"
  He was thinking if he could only get there and cross the river
into Canada, he could take his time about getting to Montreal. He
was relieved to learn that it would reach there by noon.
  "Mayhew won't open the safe till nine," he thought. "They can't
get on my track before noon."
  Then he thought of Carrie. With what speed must he get her, if he
got her at all. She would have to come along. He jumped into the
nearest cab standing by.
  "To Ogden Place," he said sharply. "I'll give you a dollar more if
you make good time."
  The cabby beat his horse into a sort of imitation gallop, which
was fairly fast, however. On the way Hurstwood thought what to do.
Reaching the number, he hurried up the steps and did not spare the
bell in waking the servant.
  "Is Mrs. Drouet in?" he asked.
  "Yes," said the astonished girl.
  "Tell her to dress and come to the door at once. Her husband is in
the hospital, injured, and wants to see her."
  The servant girl hurried upstairs, convinced by the man's strained
and emphatic manner.
  "What!" said Carrie, lighting the gas and searching for her clothes.
  "Mr. Drouet is hurt and in the hospital. He wants to see you. The
cab's downstairs."
  Carrie dressed very rapidly, and soon appeared below, forgetting
everything save the necessities.
  "Drouet is hurt," said Hurstwood quickly. "He wants to see you. Come
quickly."
  Carrie was so bewildered that she swallowed the whole story.
  "Get in," said Hurstwood, helping her and jumping after.
  The cabby began to turn the horse around.
  "Michigan Central depot," he said, standing up and speaking so low
that Carrie could not hear, "as fast as you can go."
                      Chapter XXVIII.
          A PILGRIM, AN OUTLAW: THE SPIRIT DETAINED

  The cab had not travelled a short block before Carrie, settling
herself and thoroughly waking in the night atmosphere, asked:
  "What's the matter with him? Is he hurt badly?"
  "It isn't anything very serious," Hurstwood said solemnly. He was
very much disturbed over his own situation, and now that he had Carrie
with him, he only wanted to get safely out of reach of the law.
Therefore he was in no mood for anything save such words as would
further his plans distinctly.
  Carrie did not forget that there was something to be settled between
her and Hurstwood, but the thought was ignored in her agitation. The
one thing was to finish this strange pilgrimage.
  "Where is he?"
  "Way out on the South Side," said Hurstwood. "We'll have to take the
train. It's the quickest way."
  Carrie said nothing, and the horse gambolled on. The weirdness of
the city by night held her attention. She looked at the long
receding rows of lamps and studied the dark, silent houses.
  "How did he hurt himself?" she asked- meaning what was the nature of
his injuries. Hurstwood understood. He hated to lie any more than
necessary, and yet he wanted no protests until he was out of danger.
  "I don't know exactly," he said. "They just called me up to go and
get you and bring you out. They said there wasn't any need for
alarm, but that I shouldn't fail to bring you."
  The man's serious manner convinced Carrie, and she became silent,
wondering.
  Hurstwood examined his watch and urged the man to hurry. For one
in so delicate a position he was exceedingly cool. He could only think
of how needful it was to make the train and get quietly away. Carrie
seemed quite tractable, and he congratulated himself.
  In due time they reached the depot, and after helping her out he
handed the man a five-dollar bill and hurried on.
  "You wait here," he said to Carrie, when they reached the
waiting-room, "while I get the tickets."
  "Have I much time to catch the train for Detroit?" he asked of the
agent.
  "Four minutes," said the latter.
  He paid for two tickets as circumspectly as possible.
  "Is it far?" said Carrie, as he hurried back.
  "Not very," he said. "We must get right in."
  He pushed her before him at the gate, stood between her and the
ticket man while the latter punched their tickets, so that she could
not see, and then hurried after.
  There was a long line of express and passenger cars and one or two
common day coaches. As the train had only recently been made up and
few passengers were expected, there were only one or two brakemen
waiting. They entered the rear day coach and sat down. Almost
immediately, "All aboard," resounded faintly from the outside, and the
train started.
  Carrie began to think it was a little bit curious- this going to a
depot- but said nothing. The whole incident was so out of the
natural that she did not attach too much weight to anything she
imagined.
  "How have you been?" asked Hurstwood gently, for he now breathed
easier.
  "Very well," said Carrie, who was so disturbed that she could not
bring a proper attitude to bear in the matter. She was still nervous
to reach Drouet and see what could be the matter. Hurstwood
contemplated her and felt this. He was not disturbed that it should be
so. He did not trouble because she was moved sympathetically in the
matter. It was one of the qualities in her which pleased him
exceedingly. He was only thinking how he should explain. Even this was
not the most serious thing in his mind, however. His own deed and
present flight were the great shadows which weighed upon him.
  "What a fool I was to do that," he said over and over. "What a
mistake!"
  In his sober senses, he could scarcely realise that the thing had
been done. He could not begin to feel that he was a fugitive from
justice. He had often read of such things, and had thought they must
be terrible, but now that the thing was upon him, he only sat and
looked into the past. The future was a thing which concerned the
Canadian line. He wanted to reach that. As for the rest, he surveyed
his actions for the evening, and counted them parts of a great
mistake.
  "Still," he said, "what could I have done?"
  Then he would decide to make the best of it, and would begin to do
so by starting the whole inquiry over again. It was a fruitless,
harassing round, and left him in a queer mood to deal with the
proposition he had in the presence of Carrie.
  The train clacked through the yards along the lake front, and ran
rather slowly to Twenty-fourth Street. Brakes and signals were visible
without. The engine gave short calls with its whistle, and
frequently the bell rang. Several brakemen came through, bearing
lanterns. They were locking the vestibules and putting the cars in
order for a long run.
  Presently it began to gain speed, and Carrie saw the silent
streets flashing by in rapid succession. The engine also began its
whistle-calls of four parts, with which it signalled danger to
important crossings.
  "Is it very far?" asked Carrie.
  "Not so very," said Hurstwood. He could hardly repress a smile at
her simplicity. He wanted to explain and conciliate her, but he also
wanted to be well out of Chicago.
  In the lapse of another half-hour it became apparent to Carrie
that it was quite a run to wherever he was taking her, anyhow.
  "Is it in Chicago?" she asked nervously. They were now far beyond
the city limits, and the train was scudding across the Indiana line at
a great rate.
  "No," he said, "not where we are going."
  There was something in the way he said this which aroused her in
an instant.
  Her pretty brow began to contract.
  "We are going to see Charlie, aren't we?" she asked.
  He felt that the time was up. An explanation might as well come
now as later. Therefore, he shook his head in the most gentle
negative.
  "What?" said Carrie. She was nonplussed at the possibility of the
errand being different from what she had thought.
  He only looked at her in the most kindly and mollifying way.
  "Well, where are you taking me, then?" she asked, her voice
showing the quality of fright.
  "I'll tell you, Carrie, if you'll be quiet. I want you to come along
with me to another city."
  "Oh," said Carrie, her voice rising into a weak cry. "Let me off.
I don't want to go with you."
  She was quite appalled at the man's audacity. This was something
which had never for a moment entered her head. Her one thought now was
to get off and away. If only the flying train could be stopped, the
terrible trick would be amended.
  She arose and tried to push out into the aisle- anywhere. She knew
she had to do something. Hurstwood laid a gentle hand on her.
  "Sit still, Carrie," he said. "Sit still. It won't do you any good
to get up here. Listen to me and I'll tell you what I'll do. Wait a
moment."
  She was pushing at his knees, but he only pulled her back. No one
saw this little altercation, for very few persons were in the car, and
they were attempting to doze.
  "I won't," said Carrie, who was, nevertheless, complying against her
will. "Let me go," she said. "How dare you?" and large tears began
to gather in her eyes.
  Hurstwood was now fully aroused to the immediate difficulty, and
ceased to think of his own situation. He must do something with this
girl, or she would cause him trouble. He tried the art of persuasion
with all his powers aroused.
  "Look here now, Carrie," he said, "you mustn't act this way. I
didn't mean to hurt your feelings. I don't want to do anything to make
you feel bad."
  "Oh," sobbed Carrie, "oh, oh- oo- o!"
  "There, there," he said, "you mustn't cry. Won't you listen to me?
Listen to me a minute, and I'll tell you why I came to do this
thing. I couldn't help it. I assure you I couldn't. Won't you listen?"
  Her sobs disturbed him so that he was quite sure she did not hear
a word he said.
  "Won't you listen?" he asked.
  "No, I won't," said Carrie, flashing up. "I want you to take me
out of this, or I'll tell the conductor. I won't go with you. It's a
shame," and again sobs of fright cut off her desire for expression.
  Hurstwood listened with some astonishment. He felt that she had just
cause for feeling as she did, and yet he wished that he could
straighten this thing out quickly. Shortly the conductor would come
through for the tickets. He wanted no noise, no trouble of any kind.
Before everything he must make her quiet.
  "You couldn't get out until the train stops again," said
Hurstwood. "It won't be very long until we reach another station.
You can get out then if you want to. I won't stop you. All I want
you to do is to listen a moment. You'll let me tell you, won't you?"
  Carrie seemed not to listen. She only turned her head toward the
window, where outside all was black. The train was speeding with
steady grace across the fields and through patches of wood. The long
whistles came with sad, musical effect as the lonely woodland
crossings were approached.
  Now the conductor entered the car and took up the one or two fares
that had been added at Chicago. He approached Hurstwood, who handed
out the tickets. Poised as she was to act, Carrie made no move. She
did not look about.
  When the conductor had gone again Hurstwood felt relieved.
  "You're angry at me because I deceived you," he said. "I didn't mean
to, Carrie. As I live I didn't. I couldn't help it. I couldn't stay
away from you after the first time I saw you."
  He was ignoring the last deception as something that might go by the
board. He wanted to convince her that his wife could no longer be a
factor in their relationship. The money he had stolen he tried to shut
out of his mind.
  "Don't talk to me," said Carrie, "I hate you. I want you to go
away from me. I am going to get out at the very next station."
  She was in a tremble of excitement and opposition as she spoke.
  "All right," he said, "but you'll hear me out, won't you? After
all you have said about loving me, you might hear me. I don't want
to do you any harm. I'll give you the money to go back with when you
go. I merely want to tell you, Carrie. You can't stop me from loving
you, whatever you may think."
  He looked at her tenderly, but received no reply.
  "You think I have deceived you badly, but I haven't. I didn't do
it willingly. I'm through with my wife. She hasn't any claims on me.
I'll never see her any more. That's why I'm here to-night. That's
why I came and got you."
  "You said Charlie was hurt," said Carrie, savagely. "You deceived
me. You've been deceiving me all the time, and now you want to force
me to run away with you."
  She was so excited that she got up and tried to get by him again. He
let her, and she took another seat. Then he followed.
  "Don't run away from me, Carrie," he said gently. "Let me explain.
If you will only hear me out you will see where I stand. I tell you my
wife is nothing to me. She hasn't been anything for years or I
wouldn't have ever come near you. I'm going to get a divorce just as
soon as I can. I'll never see her again. I'm done with all that.
You're the only person I want. If I can have you I won't ever think of
another woman again."
  Carrie heard all this in a very ruffled state. It sounded sincere
enough, however, despite all he had done. There was a tenseness in
Hurstwood's voice and manner which could but have some effect. She did
not want anything to do with him. He was married, he had deceived
her once, and now again, and she thought him terrible. Still there
is something in such daring and power which is fascinating to a woman,
especially if she can be made to feel that it is all prompted by
love of her.
  The progress of the train was having a great deal to do with the
solution of this difficult situation. The speeding wheels and
disappearing country put Chicago farther and farther behind. Carrie
could feel that she was being borne a long distance off- that the
engine was making an almost through run to some distant city. She felt
at times as if she could cry out and make such a row that some one
would come to her aid; at other times it seemed an almost useless
thing- so far was she from any aid, no matter what she did. All the
while Hurstwood was endeavouring to formulate his plea in such a way
that it would strike home and bring her into sympathy with him.
  "I was simply put where I didn't know what else to do."
  Carrie deigned no suggestion of hearing this.
  "When I saw you wouldn't come unless I could marry you, I decided to
put everything else behind me and get you to come away with me. I'm
going off now to another city. I want to go to Montreal for a while,
and then anywhere you want to. We'll go and live in New York, if you
say."
  "I'll not have anything to do with you," said Carrie. "I want to get
off this train. Where are we going?"
  "To Detroit," said Hurstwood.
  "Oh!" said Carrie, in a burst of anguish. So distant and definite
a point seemed to increase the difficulty.
  "Won't you come along with me?" he said, as if there was great
danger that she would not. "You won't need to do anything but travel
with me. I'll not trouble you in any way. You can see Montreal and New
York, and then if you don't want to stay you can go back. It will be
better than trying to go back to-night."
  The first gleam of fairness shone in this proposition for Carrie. It
seemed a plausible thing to do, much as she feared his opposition if
she tried to carry it out. Montreal and New York! Even now she was
speeding toward those great, strange lands, and could see them if
she liked. She thought, but made no sign.
  Hurstwood thought he saw a shade of compliance in this. He redoubled
his ardour.
  "Think," he said, "what I've given up. I can't go back to Chicago
any more. I've got to stay away and live alone now, if you don't
come with me. You won't go back on me entirely, will you, Carrie?"
  "I don't want you to talk to me," she answered forcibly.
  Hurstwood kept silent for a while.
  Carrie felt the train to be slowing down. It was the moment to act
if she was to act at all. She stirred uneasily.
  "Don't think of going, Carrie," he said. "If you ever cared for me
at all, come along and let's start right. I'll do whatever you say.
I'll marry you, or I'll let you go back. Give yourself time to think
it over. I wouldn't have wanted you to come if I hadn't loved you. I
tell you, Carrie, before God, I can't live without you. I won't!"
  There was the tensity of fierceness in the man's plea which appealed
deeply to her sympathies. It was a dissolving fire which was actuating
him now. He was loving her too intensely to think of giving her up
in this, his hour of distress. He clutched her hand nervously and
pressed it with all the force of an appeal.
  The train was now all but stopped. It was running by some cars on
a side track. Everything outside was dark and dreary. A few
sprinkles on the window began to indicate that it was raining.
Carrie hung in a quandary, balancing between decision and
helplessness. Now the train stopped, and she was listening to his
plea. The engine backed a few feet and all was still.
  She wavered, totally unable to make a move. Minute after minute
slipped by and still she hesitated, he pleading.
  "Will you let me come back if I want to?" she asked, as if she now
had the upper hand and her companion was utterly subdued.
  "Of course," he answered, "you know I will."
  Carrie only listened as one who has granted a temporary amnesty. She
began to feel as if the matter were in her hands entirely.
  The train was again in rapid motion. Hurstwood changed the subject.
  "Aren't you very tired?" he said.
  "No," she answered.
  "Won't you let me get you a berth in the sleeper?"
  She shook her head, though for all her distress and his trickery she
was beginning to notice what she had always felt- his thoughtfulness.
  "Oh, yes," he said, "you will feel so much better."
  She shook her head.
  "Let me fix my coat for you, anyway," and he arose and arranged
his light coat in a comfortable position to receive her head.
  "There," he said tenderly, "now see if you can't rest a little."
He could have kissed her for her compliance. He took his seat beside
her and thought a moment.
  "I believe we're in for a heavy rain," he said.
  "So it looks," said Carrie, whose nerves were quieting under the
sound of the rain drops, driven by a gusty wind, as the train swept on
frantically through the shadow to a newer world.
  The fact that he had in a measure mollified Carrie was a source of
satisfaction to Hurstwood, but it furnished only the most temporary
relief. Now that her opposition was out of the way, he had all of
his time to devote to the consideration of his own error.
  His condition was bitter in the extreme, for he did not want the
miserable sum he had stolen. He did not want to be a thief. That sum
or any other could never compensate for the state which he had thus
foolishly doffed. It could not give him back his host of friends,
his name, his house and family, nor Carrie, as he had meant to have
her. He was shut out from Chicago- from his easy, comfortable state.
He had robbed himself of his dignity, his merry meetings, his pleasant
evenings. And for what? The more he thought of it the more
unbearable it became. He began to think that he would try and
restore himself to his old state. He would return the miserable
thievings of the night and explain. Perhaps Moy would understand.
Perhaps they would forgive him and let him come back.
  By noontime the train rolled into Detroit and he began to feel
exceedingly nervous. The police must be on his track by now. They
had probably notified all the police of the big cities, and detectives
would be watching for him. He remembered instances in which defaulters
had been captured. Consequently, he breathed heavily and paled
somewhat. His hands felt as if they must have something to do. He
simulated interest in several scenes without which he did not feel. He
repeatedly beat his foot upon the floor.
  Carrie noticed his agitation, but said nothing. She had no idea what
it meant or that it was important.
  He wondered now why he had not asked whether this train went on
through to Montreal or some Canadian point. Perhaps he could have
saved time. He jumped up and sought the conductor.
  "Does any part of this train go to Montreal?" he asked.
  "Yes, the next sleeper back does."
  He would have asked more, but it did not seem wise, so he decided to
inquire at the depot.
  The train rolled into the yards, clanging and puffing.
  "I think we had better go right on through to Montreal," he said
to Carrie. "I'll see what the connections are when we get off."
  He was exceedingly nervous, but did his best to put on a calm
exterior. Carrie only looked at him with large, troubled eyes. She was
drifting mentally, unable to say to herself what to do.
  The train stopped and Hurstwood led the way out. He looked warily
around him, pretending to look after Carrie. Seeing nothing that
indicated studied observation, he made his way to the ticket office.
  "The next train for Montreal leaves when?" he asked.
  "In twenty minutes," said the man.
  He bought two tickets and Pullman berths. Then he hastened back to
Carrie.
  "We go right out again," he said, scarcely noticing that Carrie
looked tired and weary.
  "I wish I was out of all this," she exclaimed gloomily.
  "You'll feel better when we reach Montreal," he said.
  "I haven't an earthly thing with me," said Carrie; "not even a
handkerchief."
  "You can buy all you want as soon as you get there, dearest," he
explained. "You can call in a dressmaker."
  Now the crier called the train ready and they got on. Hurstwood
breathed a sigh of relief as it started. There was a short run to
the river, and there they were ferried over. They had barely pulled
the train off the ferry-boat when he settled back with a sigh.
  "It won't be so very long now," he said, remembering her in his
relief. "We get there the first thing in the morning."
  Carrie scarcely deigned to reply.
  "I'll see if there is a dining-car," he added. "I'm hungry."
                       Chapter XXIX.
          THE SOLACE OF TRAVEL: THE BOATS OF THE SEA

  To the untravelled, territory other than their own familiar heath is
invariably fascinating. Next to love, it is the one thing which
solaces and delights. Things new are too important to be neglected,
and mind, which is a mere reflection of sensory impressions,
succumbs to the flood of objects. Thus lovers are forgotten, sorrows
laid aside, death hidden from view. There is a world of accumulated
feeling back of the trite dramatic expression- "I am going away."
  As Carrie looked out upon the flying scenery she almost forgot
that she had been tricked into this long journey against her will
and that she was without the necessary apparel for travelling. She
quite forgot Hurstwood's presence at times, and looked away to
homely farmhouses and cosey cottages in villages with wondering
eyes. It was an interesting world to her. Her life had just begun. She
did not feel herself defeated at all. Neither was she blasted in hope.
The great city held much. Possibly she would come out of bondage
into freedom- who knows? Perhaps she would be happy. These thoughts
raised her above the level of erring. She was saved in that she was
hopeful.
  The following morning the train pulled safely into Montreal and they
stepped down, Hurstwood glad to be out of danger, Carrie wondering
at the novel atmosphere of the northern city. Long before, Hurstwood
had been here, and now he remembered the name of the hotel at which he
had stopped. As they came out of the main entrance of the depot he
heard it called anew by a busman.
  "We'll go right up and get rooms," he said.
  At the clerk's office Hurstwood swung the register about while the
clerk came forward. He was thinking what name he would put down.
With the latter before him he found no time for hesitation. A name
he had seen out of the car window came swiftly to him. It was pleasing
enough. With an easy hand he wrote, "G. W. Murdock and wife." It was
the largest concession to necessity he felt like making. His
initials he could not spare.
  When they were shown their room Carrie saw at once that he had
secured her a lovely chamber.
  "You have a bath there," said he. "Now you can clean up when you are
ready."
  Carrie went over and looked out the window, while Hurstwood looked
at himself in the glass. He felt dusty and unclean. He had no trunk,
no change of linen, not even a hair-brush.
  "I'll ring for soap and towels," he said, "and send you up a
hair-brush. Then you can bathe and get ready for breakfast. I'll go
for a shave and come back and get you, and then we'll go out and
look for some clothes for you."
  He smiled good-naturedly as he said this.
  "All right," said Carrie.
  She sat down in one of the rocking-chairs, while Hurstwood waited
for the boy, who soon knocked.
  "Soap, towels, and a pitcher of ice-water."
  "Yes, sir."
  "I'll go now," he said to Carrie, coming toward her and holding
out his hands, but she did not move to take them.
  "You're not mad at me, are you?" he asked softly.
  "Oh, no!" she answered, rather indifferently.
  "Don't you care for me at all?"
  She made no answer, but looked steadily toward the window.
  "Don't you think you could love me a little?" he pleaded, taking one
of her hands, which she endeavoured to draw away. "You once said you
did."
  "What made you deceive me so?" asked Carrie.
  "I couldn't help it," he said, "I wanted you too much."
  "You didn't have any right to want me," she answered, striking
cleanly home.
  "Oh, well, Carrie," he answered, "here I am. It's too late now.
Won't you try and care for me a little?"
  He looked rather worsted in thought as he stood before her.
  She shook her head negatively.
  "Let me start all over again. Be my wife from today on."
  Carrie rose up as if to step away, he holding her hand. Now he
slipped his arm about her and she struggled, but in vain. He held
her quite close. Instantly there flamed up in his body the
all-compelling desire. His affection took an ardent form.
  "Let me go," said Carrie, who was folded close to him.
  "Won't you love me?" he said. "Won't you be mine from now on?"
  Carrie had never been ill-disposed toward him. Only a moment
before she had been listening with some complacency, remembering her
old affection for him. He was so handsome, so daring!
  Now, however, this feeling had changed to one of opposition, which
rose feebly. It mastered her for a moment, and then, held close as she
was, began to wane. Something else in her spoke. This man, to whose
bosom she was being pressed, was strong; he was passionate, he loved
her, and she was alone. If she did not turn to him- accept of his
love- where else might she go? Her resistance half dissolved in the
flood of his strong feeling.
  She found him lifting her head and looking into her eyes. What
magnetism there was she could never know. His many sins, however, were
for the moment all forgotten.
  He pressed her closer and kissed her, and she felt that further
opposition was useless.
  "Will you marry me?" she asked, forgetting how.
  "This very day," he said, with all delight.
  Now the hall-boy pounded on the door and he released his hold upon
her regretfully.
  "You get ready now, will you," he said, "at once?"
  "Yes," she answered.
  "I'll be back in three-quarters of an hour."
  Carrie, flushed and excited, moved away as he admitted the boy.
  Below stairs, he halted in the lobby to look for a barber shop.
For the moment, he was in fine feather. His recent victory over Carrie
seemed to atone for much he had endured during the last few days. Life
seemed worth fighting for. This eastward flight from all things
customary and attached seemed as if it might have happiness in
store. The storm showed a rainbow at the end of which might be a pot
of gold.
  He was about to cross to a little red-and-white striped bar which
was fastened up beside a door when a voice greeted him familiarly.
Instantly his heart sank.
  "Why, hello, George, old man!" said the voice. "What are you doing
down here?"
  Hurstwood was already confronted, and recognised his friend Kenny,
the stock-broker.
  "Just attending to a little private matter," he answered, his mind
working like a key-board of a telephone station. This man evidently
did not know- he had not read the papers.
  "Well, it seems strange to see you way up here," said Mr. Kenny
genially. "Stopping here?"
  "Yes," said Hurstwood uneasily, thinking of his handwriting on the
register.
  "Going to be in town long?"
  "No, only a day or so."
  "Is that so? Had your breakfast?"
  "Yes," said Hurstwood, lying blandly. "I'm just going for a shave."
  "Won't you come have a drink?"
  "Not until afterwards," said the ex-manager. "I'll see you later.
Are you stopping here?"
  "Yes," said Mr. Kenny, and then, turning the word again, added: "How
are things out in Chicago?"
  "About the same as usual," said Hurstwood, smiling genially.
  "Wife with you?"
  "No."
  "Well, I must see more of you to-day. I'm just going in here for
breakfast. Come in when you're through."
  "I will," said Hurstwood, moving away. The whole conversation was
a trial to him. It seemed to add complications with every word. This
man called up a thousand memories. He represented everything he had
left. Chicago, his wife, the elegant resort- all these were in his
greeting and inquiries. And here he was in this same hotel expecting
to confer with him, unquestionably waiting to have a good time with
him. All at once the Chicago papers would arrive. The local papers
would have accounts in them this very day. He forgot his triumph
with Carrie in the possibility of soon being known for what he was, in
this man's eyes, a safe-breaker. He could have groaned as he went into
the barber shop. He decided to escape and seek a more secluded hotel.
  Accordingly, when he came out he was glad to see the lobby clear,
and hastened toward the stairs. He would get Carrie and go out by
the ladies' entrance. They would have breakfast in some more
inconspicuous place.
  Across the lobby, however, another individual was surveying him.
He was of a commonplace Irish type, small of stature, cheaply dressed,
and with a head that seemed a smaller edition of some huge ward
politician's. This individual had been evidently talking with the
clerk, but now he surveyed the ex-manager keenly.
  Hurstwood felt the long-range examination and recognised the type.
Instinctively he felt that the man was a detective- that he was
being watched. He hurried across, pretending not to notice, but in his
mind was a world of thoughts. What would happen now? What could
these people do? He began to trouble concerning the extradition
laws. He did not understand them absolutely. Perhaps he could be
arrested. Oh, if Carrie should find out! Montreal was too warm for
him. He began to long to be out of it.
  Carrie had bathed and was waiting when he arrived. She looked
refreshed- more delightful than ever, but reserved. Since he had
gone she had resumed somewhat of her cold attitude towards him. Love
was not blazing in her heart. He felt it, and his troubles seemed
increased. He could not take her in his arms; he did not even try.
Something about her forbade it. In part his opinion was the result
of his own experiences and reflections below stairs.
  "You're ready, are you?" he said kindly.
  "Yes," she answered.
  "We'll go out for breakfast. This place down here doesn't appeal
to me very much."
  "All right," said Carrie.
  They went out, and at the corner the commonplace Irish individual
was standing, eyeing him. Hurstwood could scarcely refrain from
showing that he knew of this chap's presence. The insolence in the
fellow's eye was galling. Still they passed, and he explained to
Carrie concerning the city. Another restaurant was not long in showing
itself, and here they entered.
  "What a queer town this is," said Carrie, who marvelled at it solely
because it was not like Chicago.
  "It isn't as lively as Chicago," said Hurstwood. "Don't you like
it?"
  "No," said Carrie, whose feelings were already localised in the
great Western city.
  "Well, it isn't as interesting," said Hurstwood.
  "What's here?" asked Carrie, wondering at his choosing to visit this
town.
  "Nothing much," returned Hurstwood. "It's quite a resort. There's
some pretty scenery about here."
  Carrie listened, but with a feeling of unrest. There was much
about her situation which destroyed the possibility of appreciation.
  "We won't stay here long," said Hurstwood, who was now really glad
to note her dissatisfaction. "You pick out your clothes as soon as
breakfast is over and we'll run down to New York soon. You'll like
that. It's a lot more like a city than any place outside Chicago."
  He was really planning to slip out and away. He would see what these
detectives would do- what move his employers at Chicago would make-
then he would slip away- down to New York, where it was easy to
hide. He knew enough about that city to know that its mysteries and
possibilities of mystification were infinite.
  The more he thought, however, the more wretched his situation
became. He saw that getting here did not exactly clear up the
ground. The firm would probably employ detectives to watch him-
Pinkerton men or agents of Mooney and Boland. They might arrest him
the moment he tried to leave Canada. So he might be compelled to
remain here months, and in what a state!
  Back at the hotel Hurstwood was anxious and yet fearful to see the
morning papers. He wanted to know how far the news of his criminal
deed had spread. So he told Carrie he would be up in a few moments,
and went to secure and scan the dailies. No familiar or suspicious
faces were about, and yet he did not like reading in the lobby, so
he sought the main parlour on the floor above and, seated by a
window there, looked them over. Very little was given to his crime,
but it was there, several "sticks" in all, among all the riffraff of
telegraphed murders, accidents, marriages, and other news. He
wished, half sadly, that he could undo it all. Every moment of his
time in this far-off abode of safety but added to his feeling that
he had made a great mistake. There could have been an easier way out
if he had only known.
  He left the papers before going to the room, thinking thus to keep
them out of the hands of Carrie.
  "Well, how are you feeling?" he asked of her. She was engaged in
looking out of the window.
  "Oh, all right," she answered.
  He came over, and was about to begin a conversation with her, when a
knock came at their door.
  "Maybe it's one of my parcels," said Carrie.
  Hurstwood opened the door, outside of which stood the individual
whom he had so thoroughly suspected.
  "You're Mr. Hurstwood, are you?" said the latter, with a volume of
affected shrewdness and assurance.
  "Yes," said Hurstwood calmly. He knew the type so thoroughly that
some of his old familiar indifference to it returned. Such men as
these were of the lowest stratum welcomed at the resort. He stepped
out and closed the door.
  "Well, you know what I am here for, don't you?" said the man
confidentially.
  "I can guess," said Hurstwood softly.
  "Well, do you intend to try and keep the money?"
  "That's my affair," said Hurstwood grimly.
  "You can't do it, you know," said the detective, eyeing him coolly.
  "Look here, my man," said Hurstwood authoritatively, "you don't
understand anything about this case, and I can't explain to you.
Whatever I intend to do I'll do without advice from the outside.
You'll have to excuse me."
  "Well, now, there's no use of your talking that way," said the
man, "when you're in the hands of the police. We can make a lot of
trouble for you if we want to. You're not registered right in this
house, you haven't got your wife with you, and the newspapers don't
know you're here yet. You might as well be reasonable."
  "What do you want to know?" asked Hurstwood.
  "Whether you're going to send back that money or not."
  Hurstwood paused and studied the floor.
  "There's no use explaining to you about this," he said at last.
"There's no use of your asking me. I'm no fool, you know. I know
just what you can do and what you can't. You can create a lot of
trouble if you want to. I know that all right, but it won't help you
to get the money. Now, I've made up my mind what to do. I've already
written Fitzgerald and Moy, so there's nothing I can say. You wait
until you hear more from them."
  All the time he had been talking he had been moving away from the
door, down the corridor, out of the hearing of Carrie. They were now
near the end where the corridor opened into the large general parlour.
  "You won't give it up?" said the man.
  The words irritated Hurstwood greatly. Hot blood poured into his
brain. Many thoughts formulated themselves. He was no thief. He didn't
want the money. If he could only explain to Fitzgerald and Moy,
maybe it would be all right again.
  "See here," he said, "there's no use my talking about this at all. I
respect your power all right, but I'll have to deal with the people
who know."
  "Well, you can't get out of Canada with it," said the man.
  "I don't want to get out," said Hurstwood. "When I get ready
there'll be nothing to stop me for."
  He turned back, and the detective watched him closely. It seemed
an intolerable thing. Still he went on and into the room.
  "Who was it?" asked Carrie.
  "A friend of mine from Chicago."
  The whole of this conversation was such a shock that, coming as it
did after all the other worry of the past week, it sufficed to
induce a deep gloom and moral revulsion in Hurstwood. What hurt him
most was the fact that he was being pursued as a thief. He began to
see the nature of that social injustice which sees but one side- often
but a single point in a long tragedy. All the newspapers noted but one
thing, his taking the money. How and wherefore were but
indifferently dealt with. All the complications which led up to it
were unknown. He was accused without being understood.
  Sitting in his room with Carrie the same day, he decided to send the
money back. He would write Fitzgerald and Moy, explain all, and then
send it by express. Maybe they would forgive him. Perhaps they would
ask him back. He would make good the false statement he had made about
writing them. Then he would leave this peculiar town.
  For an hour he thought over this plausible statement of the
tangle. He wanted to tell them about his wife, but couldn't. He
finally narrowed it down to an assertion that he was light-headed from
entertaining friends, had found the safe open, and having gone so
far as to take the money out, had accidentally closed it. This act
he regretted very much. He was sorry he had put them to so much
trouble. He would undo what he could by sending the money back- the
major portion of it. The remainder he would pay up as soon as he
could. Was there any possibility of his being restored? This he only
hinted at.
  The troubled state of the man's mind may be judged by the very
construction of this letter. For the nonce he forgot what a painful
thing it would be to resume his old place, even if it were given
him. He forgot that he had severed himself from the past as by a
sword, and that if he did manage to in some way reunite himself with
it, the jagged line of separation and reunion would always show. He
was always forgetting something- his wife, Carrie, his need of
money, present situation, or something- and so did not reason clearly.
Nevertheless, he sent the letter, waiting a reply before sending the
money.
  Meanwhile, he accepted his present situation with Carrie, getting
what joy out of it he could.
  Out came the sun by noon, and poured a golden flood through their
open windows. Sparrows were twittering. There were laughter and song
in the air. Hurstwood could not keep his eyes from Carrie. She
seemed the one ray of sunshine in all his trouble. Oh, if she would
only love him wholly- only throw her arms around him in the blissful
spirit in which he had seen her in the little park in Chicago- how
happy he would be! It would repay him; it would show him that he had
not lost all. He would not care.
  "Carrie," he said, getting up once and coming over to her, "are
you going to stay with me from now on?"
  She looked at him quizzically, but melted with sympathy as the value
of the look upon his face forced itself upon her. It was love now,
keen and strong- love enhanced by difficulty and worry. She could
not help smiling.
  "Let me be everything to you from now on," he said. "Don't make me
worry any more. I'll be true to you. We'll go to New York and get a
nice flat. I'll go into business again, and we'll be happy. Won't
you be mine?"
  Carrie listened quite solemnly. There was no great passion in her,
but the drift of things and this man's proximity created a semblance
of affection. She felt rather sorry for him- a sorrow born of what had
only recently been a great admiration. True love she had never felt
for him. She would have known as much if she could have analysed her
feelings, but this thing which she now felt aroused by his great
feeling broke down the barriers between them.
  "You'll stay with me, won't you?" he asked.
  "Yes," she said, nodding her head.
  He gathered her to himself, imprinting kisses upon her lips and
cheeks.
  "You must marry me, though," she said.
  "I'll get a license to-day." he answered.
  "How?" she asked.
  "Under a new name," he answered. "I'll take a new name and live a
new life. From now on I'm Murdock."
  "Oh, don't take that name," said Carrie.
  "Why not?" he said.
  "I don't like it."
  "Well, what shall I take?" he asked.
  "Oh, anything, only don't take that."
  He thought a while, still keeping his arms about her, and then said:
  "How would Wheeler do?"
  "That's all right," said Carrie.
  "Well, then, Wheeler," he said. "I'll get the license this
afternoon."
  They were married by a Baptist minister, the first divine they found
convenient.
  At last the Chicago firm answered. It was by Mr. Moy's dictation. He
was astonished that Hurstwood had done this; very sorry that it had
come about as it had. If the money were returned, they would not
trouble to prosecute him, as they really bore him no ill-will. As
for his returning, or their restoring him to his former position, they
had not quite decided what the effect of it would be. They would think
it over and correspond with him later, possibly, after a little
time, and so on.
  The sum and substance of it was that there was no hope, and they
wanted the money with the least trouble possible. Hurstwood read his
doom. He decided to pay $9,500 to the agent whom they said they
would send, keeping $1,300 for his own use. He telegraphed his
acquiescence, explained to the representative who called at the
hotel the same day, took a certificate of payment, and told Carrie
to pack her trunk. He was slightly depressed over this newest move
at the time he began to make it, but eventually restored himself. He
feared that even yet he might be seized and taken back, so he tried to
conceal his movements, but it was scarcely possible. He ordered
Carrie's trunk sent to the depot, where he had it sent by express to
New York. No one seemed to be observing him, but he left at night.
He was greatly agitated lest at the first station across the border or
at the depot in New York there should be waiting for him an officer of
the law.
  Carrie, ignorant of his theft and his fears, enjoyed the entry
into the latter city in the morning. The round green hills
sentinelling the broad, expansive bosom of the Hudson held her
attention by their beauty as the train followed the line of the
stream. She had heard of the Hudson River, the great city of New York,
and now she looked out, filling her mind with the wonder of it.
  As the train turned east at Spuyten Duyvil and followed the east
bank of the Harlem River, Hurstwood nervously called her attention
to the fact that they were on the edge of the city. After her
experience with Chicago, she expected long lines of cars- a great
highway of tracks- and noted the difference. The sight of a few
boats in the Harlem and more in the East River tickled her young
heart. It was the first sign of the great sea. Next came a plain
street with five-story brick flats, and then the train plunged into
the tunnel.
  "Grand Central Station!" called the trainman, as, after a few
minutes of darkness and smoke, daylight reappeared. Hurstwood arose
and gathered up his small grip. He was screwed up to the highest
tension. With Carrie he waited at the door and then dismounted. No one
approached him, but he glanced furtively to and fro as he made for the
street entrance. So excited was he that he forgot all about Carrie,
who fell behind, wondering at his self-absorption. As he passed
through the depot proper the strain reached its climax and began to
wane. All at once he was on the sidewalk, and none but cabmen hailed
him. He heaved a great breath and turned, remembering Carrie.
  "I thought you were going to run off and leave me," she said.
  "I was trying remember which car takes us to the Gilsey," he
answered.
  Carrie hardly heard him, so interested was she in the busy scene.
  "How large is New York?" she asked.
  "Oh, a million or more," said Hurstwood.
  He looked around and hailed a cab, but he did so in a changed way.
  For the first time in years the thought that he must count these
little expenses flashed through his mind. It was a disagreeable thing.
  He decided he would lose no time living in hotels but would rent a
flat. Accordingly he told Carrie, and she agreed.
  "We'll look to-day, if you want to," she said.
  Suddenly he thought of his experience in Montreal. At the more
important hotels he would be certain to meet Chicagoans whom he
knew. He stood up and spoke to the driver.
  "Take me to the Belford," he said, knowing it to be less
frequented by those whom he knew. Then he sat down.
  "Where is the residence part?" asked Carrie, who did not take the
tall five-story walls on either hand to be the abodes of families.
  "Everywhere," said Hurstwood, who knew the city fairly well.
"There are no lawns in New York. All these are houses."
  "Well, then, I don't like it," said Carrie, who was coming to have a
few opinions of her own.
                       Chapter XXX.
         THE KINGDOM OF GREATNESS: THE PILGRIM ADREAM

  Whatever a man like Hurstwood could be in Chicago, it is very
evident that he would be but an inconspicuous drop in an ocean like
New York. In Chicago, whose population still ranged about 500,000,
millionaires were not numerous. The rich had not become so
conspicuously rich as to drown all moderate incomes in obscurity.
The attention of the inhabitants was not so distracted by local
celebrities in the dramatic, artistic, social, and religious fields as
to shut the well-positioned man from view. In Chicago the two roads to
distinction were politics and trade. In New York the roads were any
one of a half-hundred, and each had been diligently pursued by
hundreds, so that celebrities were numerous. The sea was already
full of whales. A common fish must needs disappear wholly from view-
remain unseen. In other words, Hurstwood was nothing.
  There is a more subtle result of such a situation as this, which,
though not always taken into account, produces the tragedies of the
world. The great create an atmosphere which reacts badly upon the
small. This atmosphere is easily and quickly felt. Walk among the
magnificent residences, the splendid equipages, the gilded shops,
restaurants, resorts of all kinds; scent the flowers, the silks, the
wines; drink of the laughter springing from the soul of luxurious
content, of the glances which gleam like light from defiant spears;
feel the quality of the smiles which cut like glistening swords and of
strides born of place, and you shall know of what is the atmosphere of
the high and mighty. Little use to argue that of such is not the
kingdom of greatness, but so long as the world is attracted by this
and the human heart views this as the one desirable realm which it
must attain, so long, to that heart, will this remain the realm of
greatness. So long, also, will the atmosphere of this realm work its
desperate results in the soul of man. It is like a chemical reagent.
One day of it, like one drop of the other, will so affect and
discolour the views, the aims, the desire of the mind, that it will
thereafter remain forever dyed. A day of it to the untried mind is
like opium to the untried body. A craving is set up which, if
gratified, shall eternally result in dreams and death. Aye! dreams
unfulfilled- gnawing, luring, idle phantoms which beckon and lead,
beckon and lead, until death and dissolution dissolve their power
and restore us blind to nature's heart.
  A man of Hurstwood's age and temperament is not subject to the
illusions and burning desires of youth, but neither has he the
strength of hope which gushes as a fountain in the heart of youth.
Such an atmosphere could not incite in him the cravings of a boy of
eighteen, but in so far as they were excited, the lack of hope made
them proportionately bitter. He could not fail to notice the signs
of affluence and luxury on every hand. He had been to New York
before and knew the resources of its folly. In part it was an
awesome place to him, for here gathered all that he most respected
on this earth- wealth, place, and fame. The majority of the
celebrities with whom he had tipped glasses in his day as manager
hailed from this self-centred and populous spot. The most inviting
stories of pleasure and luxury had been told of places and individuals
here. He knew it to be true that unconsciously he was brushing
elbows with fortune the livelong day; that a hundred or five hundred
thousand gave no one the privilege of living more than comfortably
in so wealthy a place. Fashion and pomp required more ample sums, so
that the poor man was nowhere. All this he realised, now quite
sharply, as he faced the city, cut off from his friends, despoiled
of his modest fortune, and even his name, and forced to begin the
battle for place and comfort all over again. He was not old, but he
was not so dull but that he could feel he soon would be. Of a
sudden, then, this show of fine clothes, place, and power took on
peculiar significance. It was emphasised by contrast with his own
distressing state.
  And it was distressing. He soon found that freedom from fear of
arrest was not the sine qua non of his existence. That danger
dissolved, the next necessity became the grievous thing. The paltry
sum of thirteen hundred and some odd dollars set against the need of
rent, clothing, food, and pleasure for years to come was a spectacle
little calculated to induce peace of mind in one who had been
accustomed to spend five times that sum in the course of a year. He
thought upon the subject rather actively the first few days he was
in New York, and decided that he must act quickly. As a consequence,
he consulted the business opportunities advertised in the morning
papers and began investigations on his own account.
  That was not before he had become settled, however. Carrie and he
went looking for a flat, as arranged, and found one in
Seventy-eighth Street near Amsterdam Avenue. It was a five-story
building, and their flat was on the third floor. Owing to the fact
that the street was not yet built up solidly, it was possible to see
east to the green tops of the trees in Central Park and west to the
broad waters of the Hudson, a glimpse of which was to be had out of
the west windows. For the privilege of six rooms and a bath, running
in a straight line, they were compelled to pay thirty-five dollars a
month- an average, and yet exorbitant, rent for a home at the time.
Carrie noticed the difference between the size of the rooms here and
in Chicago and mentioned it.
  "You'll not find anything better, dear," said Hurstwood, "unless you
go into one of the old-fashioned houses, and then you won't have any
of these conveniences."
  Carrie picked out the new abode because of its newness and bright
wood-work. It was one of the very new ones supplied with steam heat,
which was a great advantage. The stationary range, hot and cold water,
dumb-waiter, speaking tubes, and call-bell for the janitor pleased her
very much. She had enough of the instincts of a housewife to take
great satisfaction in these things.
  Hurstwood made arrangement with one of the instalment houses whereby
they furnished the flat complete and accepted fifty dollars down and
ten dollars a month. He then had a little plate, bearing the name G.
W. Wheeler, made, which he placed on his letter-box in the hall. It
sounded exceedingly odd to Carrie to be called Mrs. Wheeler by the
janitor, but in time she became used to it and looked upon the name as
her own.
  These house details settled, Hurstwood visited some of the
advertised opportunities to purchase an interest in some flourishing
down-town bar. After the palatial resort in Adams Street, he could not
stomach the commonplace saloons which he found advertised. He lost a
number of days looking up these and finding them disagreeable. He did,
however, gain considerable knowledge by talking, for he discovered the
influence of Tammany Hall and the value of standing in with the
police. The most profitable and flourishing places he found to be
those which conducted anything but a legitimate business, such as that
controlled by Fitzgerald and Moy. Elegant back rooms and private
drinking booths on the second floor were usually adjuncts of very
profitable places. He saw by portly keepers, whose shirt fronts
shone with large diamonds, and whose clothes were properly cut, that
the liquor business here, as elsewhere, yielded the same golden
profit.
  At last he found an individual who had a resort in Warren Street,
which seemed an excellent venture. It was fairly well-appearing and
susceptible of improvement. The owner claimed the business to be
excellent, and it certainly looked so.
  "We deal with a very good class of people," he told Hurstwood.
"Merchants, salesmen, and professionals. It's a well-dressed class. No
bums. We don't allow 'em in the place."
  Hurstwood listened to the cash-register ring, and watched the
trade for a while.
  "It's profitable enough for two, is it?" he asked.
  "You can see for yourself if you're any judge of the liquor
trade," said the owner. "This is only one of the two places I have.
The other is down in Nassau Street. I can't tend to them both alone.
If I had some one who knew the business thoroughly I wouldn't mind
sharing with him in this one and letting him manage it."
  "I've had experience enough," said Hurstwood blandly, but he felt
a little diffident about referring to Fitzgerald and Moy.
  "Well, you can suit yourself, Mr. Wheeler," said the proprietor.
  He only offered a third interest in the stock, fixtures, and
good-will, and this in return for a thousand dollars and managerial
ability on the part of the one who should come in. There was no
property involved, because the owner of the saloon merely rented
from an estate.
  The offer was genuine enough, but it was a question with Hurstwood
whether a third interest in that locality could be made to yield one
hundred and fifty dollars a month, which he figured he must have in
order to meet the ordinary family expenses and be comfortable. It
was not the time, however, after many failures to find what he wanted,
to hesitate. It looked as though a third would pay a hundred a month
now. By judicious management and improvement, it might be made to
pay more. Accordingly he agreed to enter into partnership, and made
over his thousand dollars, preparing to enter the next day.
  His first inclination was to be elated, and he confided to Carrie
that he thought he had made an excellent arrangement. Time, however,
introduced food for reflection. He found his partner to be very
disagreeable. Frequently he was the worse for liquor, which made him
surly. This was the last thing which Hurstwood was used to in
business. Besides, the business varied. It was nothing like the
class of patronage which he had enjoyed in Chicago. He found that it
would take a long time to make friends. These people hurried in and
out without seeking the pleasures of friendship. It was no gathering
or lounging place. Whole days and weeks passed, without one such
hearty greeting as he had been wont to enjoy every day in Chicago.
  For another thing, Hurstwood missed the celebrities- those
well-dressed, elite individuals who lend grace to the average bars and
bring news from far-off and exclusive circles. He did not see one such
in a month. Evenings, when still at his post, he would occasionally
read in the evening papers incidents concerning celebrities whom he
knew- whom he had drunk a glass with many a time. They would visit a
bar like Fitzgerald and Moy's in Chicago, or the Hoffman House,
uptown, but he knew that he would never see them down here.
  Again, the business did not pay as well as he thought. It
increased a little, but he found he would have to watch his
household expenses, which was humiliating.
  In the very beginning it was a delight to go home late at night,
as he did, and find Carrie. He managed to run up and take dinner
with her between six and seven, and to remain home until nine
o'clock in the morning, but the novelty of this waned after a time,
and he began to feel the drag of his duties.
  The first month had scarcely passed before Carrie said in a very
natural way: "I think I'll go down this week and buy a dress."
  "What kind?" said Hurstwood.
  "Oh, something for street wear."
  "All right," he answered, smiling, although he noted mentally that
it would be more agreeable to his finances if she didn't. Nothing
was said about it the next day, but the following morning he asked:
  "Have you done anything about your dress?"
  "Not yet," said Carrie.
  He paused a few moments, as if in thought, and then said:
  "Would you mind putting it off a few days?"
  "No," replied Carrie, who did not catch the drift of his remarks.
She had never thought of him in connection with money troubles before.
"Why?"
  "Well, I'll tell you," said Hurstwood. "This investment of mine is
taking a lot of money just now. I expect to get it all back shortly,
but just at present I am running close."
  "Oh!" answered Carrie. "Why, certainly, dear. Why didn't you tell me
before?"
  "It wasn't necessary," said Hurstwood.
  For all her acquiescence, there was something about the way
Hurstwood spoke which reminded Carrie of Drouet and his little deal
which he was always about to put through. It was only the thought of a
second, but it was a beginning. It was something new in her thinking
of Hurstwood.
  Other things followed from time to time, little things of the same
sort, which in their cumulative effect were eventually equal to a full
revelation. Carrie was not dull by any means. Two persons cannot
long dwell together without coming to an understanding of one another.
The mental difficulties of an individual reveal themselves whether
he voluntarily confesses them or not. Trouble gets in the air and
contributes gloom, which speaks for itself. Hurstwood dressed as
nicely as usual, but they were the same clothes he had in Canada.
Carrie noticed that he did not install a large wardrobe, though his
own was anything but large. She noticed, also, that he did not suggest
many amusements, said nothing about the food, seemed concerned about
his business. This was not the easy Hurstwood of Chicago- not the
liberal, opulent Hurstwood she had known. The change was too obvious
to escape detection.
  In time she began to feel that a change had come about, and that she
was not in his confidence. He was evidently secretive and kept his own
counsel. She found herself asking him questions about little things.
This is a disagreeable state to a woman. Great love makes it seem
reasonable, sometimes plausible, but never satisfactory. Where great
love is not, a more definite and less satisfactory conclusion is
reached.
  As for Hurstwood, he was making a great fight against the
difficulties of a changed condition. He was too shrewd not to
realise the tremendous mistake he had made, and appreciate that he had
done well in getting where he was, and yet he could not help
contrasting his present state with his former, hour after hour, and
day after day.
  Besides, he had the disagreeable fear of meeting old-time friends,
ever since one such encounter which he made shortly after his
arrival in the city. It was in Broadway that he saw a man
approaching him whom he knew. There was no time for simulating
non-recognition. The exchange of glances had been too sharp, the
knowledge of each other too apparent. So the friend, a buyer for one
of the Chicago wholesale houses, felt, perforce, the necessity of
stopping.
  "How are you?" he said, extending his hand with an evident mixture
of feeling and a lack of plausible interest.
  "Very well," said Hurstwood, equally embarrassed. "How is it with
you?"
  "All right; I'm down here doing a little buying. Are you located
here now?"
  "Yes," said Hurstwood, "I have a place down in Warren Street."
  "Is that so?" said the friend. "Glad to hear it. I'll come down
and see you."
  "Do," said Hurstwood.
  "So long," said the other, smiling affably and going on.
  "He never asked for my number," thought Hurstwood; "he wouldn't
think of coming." He wiped his forehead, which had grown damp, and
hoped sincerely he would meet no one else.
  These things told upon his good-nature, such as it was. His one hope
was that things would change for the better in a money way. He had
Carrie. His furniture was being paid for. He was maintaining his
position. As for Carrie, the amusements he could give her would have
to do for the present. He could probably keep up his pretensions
sufficiently long without exposure to make good, and then all would be
well. He failed therein to take account of the frailties of human
nature- the difficulties of matrimonial life. Carrie was young. With
him and with her varying mental states were common. At any moment
the extremes of feeling might be anti-polarised at the dinner table.
This often happens in the best regulated families. Little things
brought out on such occasions need great love to obliterate them
afterward. Where that is not, both parties count two and two and
make a problem after a while.
                       Chapter XXXI.
       A PET OF GOOD FORTUNE: BROADWAY FLAUNTS ITS JOYS

  The effect of the city and his own situation on Hurstwood was
paralleled in the case of Carrie, who accepted the things fortune
provided with the most genial good-nature. New York, despite her first
expression of disapproval, soon interested her exceedingly. Its
clear atmosphere, more populous thoroughfares, and peculiar
indifference struck her forcibly. She had never seen such a little
flat as hers, and yet it soon enlisted her affection. The new
furniture made an excellent showing, the sideboard which Hurstwood
himself arranged gleamed brightly. The furniture for each room was
appropriate, and in the so-called parlour, or front room, was
installed a piano, because Carrie said she would like to learn to
play. She kept a servant and developed rapidly in household tactics
and information. For the first time in her life she felt settled,
and somewhat justified in the eyes of society as she conceived of
it. Her thoughts were merry and innocent enough. For a long while
she concerned herself over the arrangement of New York flats, and
wondered at ten families living in one building and all remaining
strange and indifferent to each other. She also marvelled at the
whistles of the hundreds of vessels in the harbour- the long, low
cries of the Sound steamers and ferry-boats when fog was on. The
mere fact that these things spoke from the sea made them wonderful.
She looked much at what she could see of the Hudson from her west
windows and of the great city building up rapidly on either hand. It
was much to ponder over, and sufficed to entertain her for more than a
year without becoming stale.
  For another thing, Hurstwood was exceedingly interesting in his
affection for her. Troubled as he was, he never exposed his
difficulties to her. He carried himself with the same self-important
air, took his new state with easy familiarity, and rejoiced in
Carrie's proclivities and successes. Each evening he arrived
promptly to dinner, and found the little dining-room a most inviting
spectacle. In a way, the smallness of the room added to its luxury. It
looked full and replete. The white-covered table was arrayed with
pretty dishes and lighted with a four-armed candelabra, each light
of which was topped with a red shade. Between Carrie and the girl
the steaks and chops came out all right, and canned goods did the rest
for a while. Carrie studied the art of making biscuit, and soon
reached the stage where she could show a plate of light, palatable
morsels for her labour.
  In this manner the second, third, and fourth months passed. Winter
came, and with it a feeling that indoors was best, so that the
attending of theatres was not much talked of. Hurstwood made great
efforts to meet all expenditures without a show of feeling one way
or the other. He pretended that he was reinvesting his money in
strengthening the business for greater ends in the future. He
contented himself with a very moderate allowance of personal
apparel, and rarely suggested anything for Carrie. Thus the first
winter passed.
  In the second year, the business which Hurstwood managed did
increase somewhat. He got out of it regularly the $150 per month which
he had anticipated. Unfortunately, by this time Carrie had reached
certain conclusions, and he had scraped up a few acquaintances.
  Being of a passive and receptive rather than an active and
aggressive nature, Carrie accepted the situation. Her state seemed
satisfactory enough. Once in a while they would go to a theatre
together, occasionally in season to the beaches and different points
about the city, but they picked up no acquaintances. Hurstwood
naturally abandoned his show of fine manners with her and modified his
attitude to one of easy familiarity. There were no
misunderstandings, no apparent differences of opinion. In fact,
without money or visiting friends, he led a life which could neither
arouse jealousy nor comment. Carrie rather sympathised with his
efforts and thought nothing upon her lack of entertainment such as she
had enjoyed in Chicago. New York as a corporate entity and her flat
temporarily seemed sufficient.
  However, as Hurstwood's business increased, he, as stated, began
to pick up acquaintances. He also began to allow himself more clothes.
He convinced himself that his home life was very precious to him,
but allowed that he could occasionally stay away from dinner. The
first time he did this he sent a message saying that he would be
detained. Carrie ate alone, and wished that it might not happen again.
The second time, also, he sent word, but at the last moment. The third
time he forgot entirely and explained afterwards. These events were
months apart, each.
  "Where were you, George?" asked Carrie, after the first absence.
  "Tied up at the office," he said genially. "There were some accounts
I had to straighten."
  "I'm sorry you couldn't get home," she said kindly. "I was fixing to
have such a nice dinner."
  The second time he gave a similar excuse, but the third time the
feeling about it in Carrie's mind was a little bit out of the
ordinary.
  "I couldn't get home," he said, when he came in later in the
evening, "I was so busy."
  "Couldn't you have sent me word?" asked Carrie.
  "I meant to," he said, "but you know I forgot it until it was too
late to do any good."
  "And I had such a good dinner!" said Carrie.
  Now, it so happened that from his observations of Carrie he began to
imagine that she was of the thoroughly domestic type of mind. He
really thought, after a year, that her chief expression in life was
finding its natural channel in household duties. Notwithstanding the
fact that he had observed her act in Chicago, and that during the past
year he had only seen her limited in her relations to her flat and him
by conditions which he made, and that she had not gained any friends
or associates, he drew this peculiar conclusion. With it came a
feeling of satisfaction in having a wife who could thus be content,
and this satisfaction worked its natural result. That is, since he
imagined he saw her satisfied, he felt called upon to give only that
which contributed to such satisfaction. He supplied the furniture, the
decorations, the food, and the necessary clothing. Thoughts of
entertaining her, leading her out into the shine and show of life,
grew less and less. He felt attracted to the outer world, but did
not think she would care to go along. Once he went to the theatre
alone. Another time he joined a couple of his new friends at an
evening game of poker. Since his money-feathers were beginning to grow
again he felt like sprucing about. All this, however, in a much less
imposing way than had been his wont in Chicago. He avoided the gay
places where he would be apt to meet those who had known him.
  Now, Carrie began to feel this in various sensory ways. She was
not the kind to be seriously disturbed by his actions. Not loving
him greatly, she could not be jealous in a disturbing way. In fact,
she was not jealous at all. Hurstwood was pleased with her placid
manner, when he should have duly considered it. When he did not come
home it did not seem anything like a terrible thing to her. She gave
him credit for having the usual allurements of men- people to talk to,
places to stop, friends to consult with. She was perfectly willing
that he should enjoy himself in his way, but she did not care to be
neglected herself. Her state still seemed fairly reasonable,
however. All she did observe was that Hurstwood was somewhat
different.
  Some time in the second year of their residence in Seventy-eighth
Street the flat across the hall from Carrie became vacant, and into it
moved a very handsome young woman and her husband, with both of whom
Carrie afterwards became acquainted. This was brought about solely
by the arrangement of the flats, which were united in one place, as it
were, by the dumb-waiter. This useful elevator, by which fuel,
groceries, and the like were sent up from the basement, and garbage
and waste sent down, was used by both residents on one floor; that is,
a small door opened into it from each flat.
  If the occupants of both flats answered to the whistle of the
janitor at the same time, they would stand face to face when they
opened the dumb-waiter doors. One morning, when Carrie went to
remove her paper, the newcomer, a handsome brunette of perhaps
twenty-three years of age, was there for a like purpose. She was in
a night-robe and dressing-gown, with her hair very much tousled, but
she looked so pretty and good-natured that Carrie instantly
conceived a liking for her. The newcomer did no more than smile
shamefacedly, but it was sufficient. Carrie felt that she would like
to know her, and a similar feeling stirred in the mind of the other,
who admired Carrie's innocent face.
  "That's a real pretty woman who has moved in next door," said Carrie
to Hurstwood at the breakfast table.
  "Who are they?" asked Hurstwood.
  "I don't know," said Carrie. "The name on the bell is Vance. Some
one over there plays beautifully. I guess it must be she."
  "Well, you never can tell what sort of people you're living next
to in this town, can you?" said Hurstwood, expressing the customary
New York opinion about neighbours.
  "Just think," said Carrie, "I have been in this house with nine
other families for over a year and I don't know a soul. These people
have been here over a month, and I haven't seen any one before this
morning."
  "It's just as well," said Hurstwood. "You never know who you're
going to get in with. Some of these people are pretty bad company."
  "I expect so," said Carrie, agreeably.
  The conversation turned to other things, and Carrie thought no
more upon the subject until a day or two later, when, going out to
market, she encountered Mrs. Vance coming in. The latter recognised
her and nodded, for which Carrie returned a smile. This settled the
probability of acquaintanceship. If there had been no faint
recognition on this occasion, there would have been no future
association.
  Carrie saw no more of Mrs. Vance for several weeks, but she heard
her play through the thin walls which divided the front rooms of the
flats, and was pleased by the merry selection of pieces and the
brilliance of their rendition. She could play only moderately herself,
and such variety as Mrs. Vance exercised bordered, for Carrie, upon
the verge of great art. Everything she had seen and heard thus far-
the merest scraps and shadows- indicated that these people were, in
a measure, refined and in comfortable circumstances. So Carrie was
ready for any extension of the friendship which might follow.
  One day Carrie's bell rang and the servant, who was in the
kitchen, pressed the button which caused the front door of the general
entrance on the ground floor to be electrically unlatched. When Carrie
waited at her own door on the third floor to see who it might be
coming up to call on her, Mrs. Vance appeared.
  "I hope you'll excuse me," she said. "I went out a while ago and
forgot my outside key, so I thought I'd ring your bell."
  This was a common trick of other residents of the building, whenever
they had forgotten their outside keys. They did not apologise for
it, however.
  "Certainly," said Carrie. "I'm glad you did. I do the same thing
sometimes."
  "Isn't it just delightful weather?" said Mrs. Vance, pausing for a
moment.
  Thus, after a few more preliminaries, this visiting acquaintance was
well launched, and in the young Mrs. Vance Carrie found an agreeable
companion.
  On several occasions Carrie visited her and was visited. Both
flats were good to look upon, though that of the Vances tended
somewhat more to the luxurious.
  "I want you to come over this evening and meet my husband," said
Mrs. Vance, not long after their intimacy began. "He wants to meet
you. You play cards, don't you?"
  "A little," said Carrie.
  "Well, we'll have a game of cards. If your husband comes home
bring him over."
  "He's not coming to dinner to-night," said Carrie.
  "Well, when he does come we'll call him in."
  Carrie acquiesced, and that evening met the portly Vance, an
individual a few years younger than Hurstwood, and who owed his
seemingly comfortable matrimonial state much more to his money than to
his good looks. He thought well of Carrie upon the first glance and
laid himself out to be genial, teaching her a new game of cards and
talking to her about New York and its pleasures. Mrs. Vance played
some upon the piano, and at last Hurstwood came.
  "I am very glad to meet you," he said to Mrs. Vance when Carrie
introduced him, showing much of the old grace which had captivated
Carrie.
  "Did you think your wife had run away?" said Mr. Vance, extending
his hand upon introduction.
  "I didn't know but what she might have found a better husband," said
Hurstwood.
  He now turned his attention to Mrs. Vance, and in a flash Carrie saw
again what she for some time had sub-consciously missed in
Hurstwood- the adroitness and flattery of which he was capable. She
also saw that she was not well dressed- not nearly as well dressed- as
Mrs. Vance. These were not vague ideas any longer. Her situation was
cleared up for her. She felt that her life was becoming stale, and
therein she felt cause for gloom. The old helpful, urging melancholy
was restored. The desirous Carrie was whispered to concerning her
possibilities.
  There were no immediate results to this awakening, for Carrie had
little power of initiative; but, nevertheless, she seemed ever capable
of getting herself into the tide of change where she would be easily
borne along. Hurstwood noticed nothing. He had been unconscious of the
marked contrasts which Carrie had observed. He did not even detect the
shade of melancholy which settled in her eyes. Worst of all, she now
began to feel the loneliness of the flat and seek the company of
Mrs. Vance, who liked her exceedingly.
  "Let's go to the matinee this afternoon," said Mrs. Vance, who had
stepped across into Carrie's flat one morning, still arrayed in a soft
pink dressing-gown, which she had donned upon rising. Hurstwood and
Vance had gone their separate ways nearly an hour before.
  "All right," said Carrie, noticing the air of the petted and
well-groomed woman in Mrs. Vance's general appearance. She looked as
though she was dearly loved and her every wish gratified. "What
shall we see?"
  "Oh, I do want to see Nat Goodwin," said Mrs. Vance. "I do think
he is the jolliest actor. The papers say this is such a good play."
  "What time will we have to start?" asked Carrie.
  "Let's go at one and walk down Broadway from Thirty-fourth
Street," said Mrs. Vance. "It's such an interesting walk. He's at
the Madison Square."
  "I'll be glad to go," said Carrie. "How much will we have to pay for
seats?"
  "Not more than a dollar," said Mrs. Vance.
  The latter departed, and at one o'clock reappeared, stunningly
arrayed in a dark-blue walking dress, with a nobby hat to match.
Carrie had gotten herself up charmingly enough, but this woman
pained her by contrast. She seemed to have so many dainty little
things which Carrie had not. There were trinkets of gold, an elegant
green leather purse set with her initials, a fancy handkerchief,
exceedingly rich in design, and the like. Carrie felt that she
needed more and better clothes to compare with this woman, and that
any one looking at the two would pick Mrs. Vance for her raiment
alone. It was a trying, though rather unjust thought, for Carrie had
now developed an equally pleasing figure, and had grown in
comeliness until she was a thoroughly attractive type of her colour of
beauty. There was some difference in the clothing of the two, both
of quality and age, but this difference was not especially noticeable.
It served, however, to augment Carrie's dissatisfaction with her
state.
  The walk down Broadway, then as now, was one of the remarkable
features of the city. There gathered, before the matinee and
afterwards, not only all the pretty women who love a showy parade, but
the men who love to gaze upon and admire them. It was a very
imposing procession of pretty faces and fine clothes. Women appeared
in their very best hats, shoes, and gloves, and walked arm in arm on
their way to the fine shops or theatres strung along from Fourteenth
to Thirty-fourth streets. Equally the men paraded with the very latest
they could afford. A tailor might have secured hints on suit
measurements, a shoemaker on proper lasts and colours, a hatter on
hats. It was literally true that if a lover of fine clothes secured
a new suit, it was sure to have its first airing on Broadway. So
true and well understood was this fact, that several years later a
popular song, detailing this and other facts concerning the
afternoon parade on matinee days, and entitled "What Right Has He on
Broadway?" was published, and had quite a vogue about the
music-halls of the city.
  In all her stay in the city, Carrie had never heard of this showy
parade; had never even been on Broadway when it was taking place. On
the other hand, it was a familiar thing to Mrs. Vance, who not only
knew of it as an entity, but had often been in it, going purposely
to see and be seen, to create a stir with her beauty and dispel any
tendency to fall short in dressiness by contrasting herself with the
beauty and fashion of the town.
  Carrie stepped along easily enough after they got out of the car
at Thirty-fourth Street, but soon fixed her eyes upon the lovely
company which swarmed by and with them as they proceeded. She
noticed suddenly that Mrs. Vance's manner had rather stiffened under
the gaze of handsome men and elegantly dressed ladies, whose glances
were not modified by any rules of propriety. To stare seemed the
proper and natural thing. Carrie found herself stared at and ogled.
Men in flawless top-coats, high hats, and silver-headed walking sticks
elbowed near and looked too often into conscious eyes. Ladies
rustled by in dresses of stiff cloth, shedding affected smiles and
perfume. Carrie noticed among them the sprinkling of goodness and
the heavy percentage of vice. The rouged and powdered cheeks and lips,
the scented hair, the large, misty, and languorous eye, were common
enough. With a start she awoke to find that she was in fashion's
crowd, on parade in a show place- and such a show place! Jewellers'
windows gleamed along the path with remarkable frequency. Florist
shops, furriers, haberdashers, confectioners- all followed in rapid
succession. The street was full of coaches. Pompous doormen in immense
coats, shiny brass belts and buttons, waited in front of expensive
salesrooms. Coachmen in tan boots, white tights, and blue jackets
waited obsequiously for the mistresses of carriages who were
shopping inside. The whole street bore the flavour of riches and show,
and Carrie felt that she was not of it. She could not, for the life of
her, assume the attitude and smartness of Mrs. Vance, who, in her
beauty, was all assurance. She could only imagine that it must be
evident to many that she was the less handsomely dressed of the two.
It cut her to the quick, and she resolved that she would not come here
again until she looked better. At the same time she longed to feel the
delight of parading here as an equal. Ah, then she would be happy!
                      Chapter XXXII.
         THE FEAST OF BELSHAZZAR: A SEER TO TRANSLATE

  Such feelings as were generated in Carrie by this walk put her in an
exceedingly receptive mood for the pathos which followed in the
play. The actor whom they had gone to see had achieved his
popularity by presenting a mellow type of comedy, in which
sufficient sorrow was introduced to lend contrast and relief to
humour. For Carrie, as we well know, the stage had a great attraction.
She had never forgotten her one histrionic achievement in Chicago.
It dwelt in her mind and occupied her consciousness during many long
afternoons in which her rocking-chair and her latest novel contributed
the only pleasures of her state. Never could she witness a play
without having her own ability vividly brought to consciousness.
Some scenes made her long to be a part of them- to give expression
to the feelings which she, in the place of the character
represented, would feel. Almost invariably she would carry the vivid
imaginations away with her and brood over them the next day alone. She
lived as much in these things as in the realities which made up her
daily life.
  It was not often that she came to the play stirred to her heart's
core by actualities. To-day a low song of longing had been set singing
in her heart by the finery, the merriment, the beauty she had seen.
Oh, these women who had passed her by, hundreds and hundreds strong,
who were they? Whence came the rich, elegant dresses, the
astonishingly coloured buttons, the knick-knacks of silver and gold?
Where were these lovely creatures housed? Amid what elegancies of
carved furniture, decorated walls, elaborate tapestries did they move?
Where were their rich apartments, loaded with all that money could
provide? In what stables champed these sleek, nervous horses and
rested the gorgeous carriages? Where lounged the richly groomed
footmen? Oh, the mansions, the lights, the perfume, the loaded
boudoirs and tables! New York must be filled with such bowers, or
the beautiful, insolent, supercilious creatures could not be. Some
hot-houses held them. It ached her to know that she was not one of
them- that, alas, she had dreamed a dream and it had not come true.
She wondered at her own solitude these two years past- her
indifference to the fact that she had never achieved what she had
expected.
  The play was one of those drawing-room concoctions in which
charmingly overdressed ladies and gentlemen suffer the pangs of love
and jealousy amid gilded surroundings. Such bon-mots are ever enticing
to those who have all their days longed for such material surroundings
and have never had them gratified. They have the charm of showing
suffering under ideal conditions. Who would not grieve upon a gilded
chair? Who would not suffer amid perfumed tapestries, cushioned
furniture, and liveried servants? Grief under such circumstances
becomes an enticing thing. Carrie longed to be of it. She wanted to
take her sufferings, whatever they were, in such a world, or failing
that, at least to simulate them under such charming conditions upon
the stage. So affected was her mind by what she had seen, that the
play now seemed an extraordinarily beautiful thing. She was soon
lost in the world it represented, and wished that she might never
return. Between the acts she studied the galaxy of matinee
attendants in front rows and boxes, and conceived a new idea of the
possibilities of New York. She was sure she had not seen it all-
that the city was one whirl of pleasure and delight.
  Going out, the same Broadway taught her a sharper lesson. The
scene she had witnessed coming down was now augmented and at its
height. Such a crush of finery and folly she had never seen. It
clinched her convictions concerning her state. She had not lived,
could not lay claim to having lived, until something of this had
come into her own life. Women were spending money like water; she
could see that in every elegant shop she passed. Flowers, candy,
jewelry, seemed the principal things in which the elegant dames were
interested. And she had scarcely enough pin money to indulge in such
outings as this a few times a month.
  That night the pretty little flat seemed a commonplace thing. It was
not what the rest of the world was enjoying. She saw the servant
working at dinner with an indifferent eye. In her mind were running
scenes of the play. Particularly she remembered one beautiful actress-
the sweetheart who had been wooed and won. The grace of this woman had
won Carrie's heart. Her dresses had been all that art could suggest,
her sufferings had been so real. The anguish which she had portrayed
Carrie could feel. It was done as she was sure she could do it.
There were places in which she could even do better. Hence she
repeated the lines to herself. Oh, if she could only have such a part,
how broad would be her life! She, too, could act appealingly.
  When Hurstwood came, Carrie was moody. She was sitting, rocking
and thinking, and did not care to have her enticing imaginations
broken in upon; so she said little or nothing.
  "What's the matter, Carrie?" said Hurstwood after a time, noticing
her quiet, almost moody state.
  "Nothing," said Carrie. "I don't feel very well to-night."
  "Not sick, are you?" he asked, approaching very close.
  "Oh, no," she said, almost pettishly, "I just don't feel very good."
  "That's too bad," he said, stepping away and adjusting his vest
after his slight bending over. "I was thinking we might go to a show
to-night."
  "I don't want to go," said Carrie, annoyed that her fine visions
should have thus been broken into and driven out of her mind. "I've
been to the matinee this afternoon."
  "Oh, you have?" said Hurstwood. "What was it?"
  "A Gold Mine."
  "How was it?"
  "Pretty good," said Carrie.
  "And you don't want to go again to-night?"
  "I don't think I do," she said.
  Nevertheless, wakened out of her melancholia and called to the
dinner table, she changed her mind. A little food in the stomach
does wonders. She went again, and in so doing temporarily recovered
her equanimity. The great awakening blow had, however, been delivered.
As often as she might recover from these discontented thoughts now,
they would occur again. Time and repetition- ah, the wonder of it! The
dropping water and the solid stone- how utterly it yields at last!
  Not long after this matinee experience- perhaps a month- Mrs.
Vance invited Carrie to an evening at the theater with them. She heard
Carrie say that Hurstwood was not coming home to dinner.
  "Why don't you come with us? Don't get dinner for yourself. We're
going down to Sherry's for dinner and then over to the Lyceum. Come
along with us."
  "I think I will," answered Carrie.
  She began to dress at three o'clock for her departure at half-past
five for the noted dining-room which was then crowding Delmonico's for
position in society. In this dressing Carrie showed the influence of
her association with the dashing Mrs. Vance. She had constantly had
her attention called by the latter to novelties in everything which
pertains to a woman's apparel.
  "Are you going to get such and such a hat?" or, "Have you seen the
new gloves with the oval pearl buttons?" were but sample phrases out
of a large selection.
  "The next time you get a pair of shoes, dearie," said Mrs. Vance,
"get button, with thick soles and patent-leather tips. They're all the
rage this fall."
  "I will," said Carrie.
  "Oh, dear, have you seen the new shirtwaists at Altman's? They
have some of the loveliest patterns. I saw one there that I know would
look stunning on you. I said so when I saw it."
  Carrie listened to these things with considerable interest, for they
were suggested with more of friendliness than is usually common
between pretty women. Mrs. Vance liked Carrie's stable good-nature
so well that she really took pleasure in suggesting to her the
latest things.
  "Why don't you get yourself one of those nice serge skirts they're
selling at Lord & Taylor's?" she said one day. "They're the circular
style, and they're going to be worn from now on. A dark blue one would
look so nice on you."
  Carrie listened with eager ears. These things never came up
between her and Hurstwood. Nevertheless, she began to suggest one
thing and another, which Hurstwood agreed to without any expression of
opinion. He noticed the new tendency on Carrie's part, and finally,
hearing much of Mrs. Vance and her delightful ways, suspected whence
the change came. He was not inclined to offer the slightest
objection so soon, but he felt that Carrie's wants were expanding.
This did not appeal to him exactly, but he cared for her in his own
way, and so the thing stood. Still, there was something in the details
of the transactions which caused Carrie to feel that her requests were
not a delight to him. He did not enthuse over the purchases. This
led her to believe that neglect was creeping in, and so another
small wedge was entered.
  Nevertheless, one of the results of Mrs. Vance's suggestions was the
fact that on this occasion Carrie was dressed somewhat to her own
satisfaction. She had on her best, but there was comfort in the
thought that if she must confine herself to a best, it was neat and
fitting. She looked the well-groomed woman of twenty-one, and Mrs.
Vance praised her, which brought colour to her plump cheeks and a
noticeable brightness into her large eyes. It was threatening rain,
and Mr. Vance, at his wife's request, had called a coach.
  "Your husband isn't coming?" suggested Mr. Vance, as he met Carrie
in his little parlour.
  "No, he said he wouldn't be home for dinner."
  "Better leave a little note for him, telling him where we are. He
might turn up."
  "I will," said Carrie, who had not thought of it before.
  "Tell him we'll be at Sherry's until eight o'clock. He knows,
though, I guess."
  Carrie crossed the hall with rustling skirts, and scrawled the note,
gloves on. When she returned a newcomer was in the Vance flat.
  "Mrs. Wheeler, let me introduce Mr. Ames, a cousin of mine," said
Mrs. Vance. "He's going along with us, aren't you, Bob?"
  "I'm very glad to meet you," said Ames, bowing politely to Carrie.
  The latter caught in a glance the dimensions of a very stalwart
figure. She also noticed that he was smooth-shaven, good looking,
and young, but nothing more.
  "Mr. Ames is just down in New York for a few days," put in Vance,
"and we're trying to show him around a little."
  "Oh, are you?" said Carrie, taking another glance at the newcomer.
  "Yes; I am just on here from Indianapolis for a week or so," said
young Ames, seating himself on the edge of a chair to wait while
Mrs. Vance completed the last touches of her toilet.
  "I guess you find New York quite a thing to see, don't you?" said
Carrie, venturing something to avoid a possible deadly silence.
  "It is rather large to get around in a week," answered Ames,
pleasantly.
  He was an exceedingly genial soul, this young man, and wholly free
of affectation. It seemed to Carrie he was as yet only overcoming
the last traces of the bashfulness of youth. He did not seem apt at
conversation, but he had the merit of being well dressed and wholly
courageous. Carrie felt as if it were not going to be hard to talk
to him.
  "Well, I guess we're ready now. The coach is outside."
  "Come on, people," said Mrs. Vance, coming in smiling. "Bob,
you'll have to look after Mrs. Wheeler."
  "I'll try to," said Bob smiling, and edging closer to Carrie. "You
won't need much watching, will you?" he volunteered, in a sort of
ingratiating and help-me-out kind of way.
  "Not very, I hope," said Carrie.
  They descended the stairs, Mrs. Vance offering suggestions, and
climbed into the open coach.
  "All right," said Vance, slamming the coach door, and the conveyance
rolled away.
  "What is it we're going to see?" asked Ames.
  "Sothern," said Vance, "in 'Lord Chumley.'"
  "Oh, he is so good!" said Mrs. Vance. "He's just the funniest man."
  "I notice the papers praise it," said Ames.
  "I haven't any doubt," put in Vance, "but we'll all enjoy it very
much."
  Ames had taken a seat beside Carrie, and accordingly he felt it
his bounden duty to pay her some attention. He was interested to
find her so young a wife, and so pretty, though it was only a
respectful interest. There was nothing of the dashing lady's man about
him. He had respect for the married state, and thought only of some
pretty marriageable girls in Indianapolis.
  "Are you a born New Yorker?" asked Ames of Carrie.
  "Oh, no; I've only been here for two years."
  "Oh, well, you've had time to see a great deal of it, anyhow."
  "I don't seem to have," answered Carrie. "It's about as strange to
me as when I first came here."
  "You're not from the West, are you?"
  "Yes. I'm from Wisconsin," she answered.
  "Well, it does seem as if most people in this town haven't been here
so very long. I hear of lots of Indiana people in my line who are
here."
  "What is your line?" asked Carrie.
  "I'm connected with an electrical company," said the youth.
  Carrie followed up this desultory conversation with occasional
interruptions from the Vances. Several times it became general and
partially humorous, and in that manner the restaurant was reached.
  Carrie had noticed the appearance of gayety and pleasure-seeking
in the streets which they were following. Coaches were numerous,
pedestrians many, and in Fifty-ninth Street the street cars were
crowded. At Fifty-ninth Street and Fifth Avenue a blaze of lights from
several new hotels which bordered the Plaza Square gave a suggestion
of sumptuous hotel life. Fifth Avenue, the home of the wealthy, was
noticeably crowded with carriages, and gentlemen in evening dress.
At Sherry's an imposing doorman opened the coach door and helped
them out. Young Ames held Carrie's elbow as he helped her up the
steps. They entered the lobby already swarming with patrons, and then,
after divesting themselves of their wraps, went into a sumptuous
dining-room.
  In all Carrie's experience she had never seen anything like this. In
the whole time she had been in New York Hurstwood's modified state had
not permitted his bringing her to such a place. There was an almost
indescribable atmosphere about it which convinced the newcomer that
this was the proper thing. Here was the place where the matter of
expense limited the patrons to the moneyed or pleasure-loving class.
Carrie had read of it often in the "Morning" and "Evening World."
She had seen notices of dances, parties, balls, and suppers at
Sherry's. The Misses So-and-so would give a party on Wednesday evening
at Sherry's. Young Mr. So-and-so would entertain a party of friends at
a private luncheon on the sixteenth, at Sherry's. The common run of
conventional, perfunctory notices of the doings of society, which
she could scarcely refrain from scanning each day, had given her a
distinct idea of the gorgeousness and luxury of this wonderful
temple of gastronomy. Now, at last, she was really in it. She had come
up the imposing steps, guarded by the large and portly doorman. She
had seen the lobby, guarded by another large and portly gentleman, and
been waited upon by uniformed youths who took care of canes,
overcoats, and the like. Here was the splendid dining-chamber, all
decorated and aglow, where the wealthy ate. Ah, how fortunate was Mrs.
Vance; young, beautiful, and well off- at least, sufficiently so to
come here in a coach. What a wonderful thing it was to be rich.
  Vance led the way through lanes of shining tables, at which were
seated parties of two, three, four, five, or six. The air of assurance
and dignity about it all was exceedingly noticeable to the
novitiate. Incandescent lights, the reflection of their glow in
polished glasses, and the shine of gilt upon the walls, combined
into one tone of light which it requires minutes of complacent
observation to separate and take particular note of. The white shirt
fronts of the gentlemen, the bright costumes of the ladies,
diamonds, jewels, fine feathers- all were exceedingly noticeable.
  Carrie walked with an air equal to that of Mrs. Vance, and
accepted the seat which the head waiter provided for her. She was
keenly aware of all the little things that were done- the little
genuflections and attentions of the waiters and head waiter which
Americans pay for. The air with which the latter pulled out each
chair, and the wave of the hand with which he motioned them to be
seated, were worth several dollars in themselves.
  Once seated, there began that exhibition of showy, wasteful, and
unwholesome gastronomy as practised by wealthy Americans, which is the
wonder and astonishment of true culture and dignity the world over.
The large bill of fare held an array of dishes sufficient to feed an
army, sidelined with prices which made reasonable expenditure a
ridiculous impossibility- an order of soup a fifty cents or a
dollar, with a dozen kinds to choose from; oysters in forty styles and
at sixty cents the half-dozen; entrees, fish, and meats at prices
which would house one over night in an average hotel. One dollar fifty
and two dollars seemed to be the most common figures upon this most
tastefully printed bill of fare.
  Carrie noticed this, and in scanning it the price of spring
chicken carried her back to that other bill of fare and far
different occasion when, for the first time, she sat with Drouet in
a good restaurant in Chicago. It was only momentary- a sad note as out
of an old song- and then it was gone. But in that flash was seen the
other Carrie- poor, hungry, drifting at her wits' ends, and all
Chicago a cold and closed world, from which she only wandered
because she could not find work.
  On the walls were designs in colour, square spots of robin's-egg
blue, set in ornate frames of gilt, whose corners were elaborate
mouldings of fruit and flowers, with fat cupids hovering in angelic
comfort. On the ceilings were coloured traceries with more gilt,
leading to a centre where spread a cluster of lights- incandescent
globes mingled with glittering prisms and stucco tendrils of gilt. The
floor was of a reddish hue, waxed and polished, and in every direction
were mirrors- tall, brilliant, bevel-edged mirrors- reflecting and
re-reflecting forms, faces, and candelabra a score and a hundred
times.
  The tables were not so remarkable in themselves, and yet the imprint
of Sherry upon the napery, the name of Tiffany upon the silverware,
the name of Haviland upon the china, and over all the glow of the
small, red-shaded candelabra and the reflected tints of the walls on
garments and faces, made them seem remarkable. Each waiter added an
air of exclusiveness and elegance by the manner in which he bowed,
scraped, touched, and trifled with things. The exclusively personal
attention which he devoted to each one, standing half bent, ear to one
side, elbows akimbo, saying: "Soup- green turtle, yes. One portion,
yes. Oysters- certainly- half-dozen- yes. Asparagus. Olives- yes."
  It would be the same with each one, only Vance essayed to order
for all, inviting counsel and suggestions. Carrie studied the
company with open eyes. So this was high life in New York. It was so
that the rich spent their days and evenings. Her poor little mind
could not rise above applying each scene to all society. Every fine
lady must be in the crowd on Broadway in the afternoon, in the theatre
at the matinee, in the coaches and dining-halls at night. It must be
glow and shine everywhere, with coaches waiting, and footmen
attending, and she was out of it all. In two long years she had
never even been in such a place as this.
  Vance was in his element here, as Hurstwood would have been in
former days. He ordered freely of soup, oysters, roast meats, and side
dishes, and had several bottles of wine brought, which were set down
beside the table in a wicker basket.
  Ames was looking away rather abstractedly at the crowd and showed an
interesting profile to Carrie. His forehead was high, his nose
rather large and strong, his chin moderately pleasing. He had a
good, wide, well-shaped mouth, and his dark-brown hair was parted
slightly on one side. He seemed to have the least touch of
boyishness to Carrie, and yet he was a man full grown.
  "Do you know," he said, turning back to Carrie, after his
reflection, "I sometimes think it is a shame for people to spend so
much money this way."
  Carrie looked at him a moment with the faintest touch of surprise at
his seriousness. He seemed to be thinking about something over which
she had never pondered.
  "Do you?" she answered, interestedly.
  "Yes," he said, "they pay so much more than these things are
worth. They put on so much show."
  "I don't know why people shouldn't spend when they have it," said
Mrs. Vance.
  "It doesn't do any harm," said Vance, who was still studying the
bill of fare, though he had ordered.
  Ames was looking away again, and Carrie was again looking at his
forehead. To her he seemed to be thinking about strange things. As
he studied the crowd his eye was mild.
  "Look at that woman's dress over there," he said, again turning to
Carrie, and nodding in a direction.
  "Where?" said Carrie, following his eyes.
  "Over there in the corner- way over. Do you see that brooch?"
  "Isn't it large?" said Carrie.
  "One of the largest clusters of jewels I have ever seen," said Ames.
  "It is, isn't it?" said Carrie. She felt as if she would like to
be agreeable to this young man, and also there came with it, or
perhaps preceded it, the slightest shade of a feeling that he was
better educated than she was- that his mind was better. He seemed to
look it, and the saving grace in Carrie was that she could
understand that people could be wiser. She had seen a number of people
in her life who reminded her of what she had vaguely come to think
of as scholars. This strong young man beside her, with his clear,
natural look, seemed to get a hold of things which she did not quite
understand, but approved of. It was fine to be so, as a man, she
thought.
  The conversation changed to a book that was having its vogue at
the time- "Moulding a Maiden," by Albert Ross. Mrs. Vance had read it.
Vance had seen it discussed in some of the papers.
  "A man can make quite a strike writing a book," said Vance. "I
notice this fellow Ross is very much talked about." He was looking
at Carrie as he spoke.
  "I hadn't heard of him," said Carrie, honestly.
  "Oh, I have," said Mrs. Vance. "He's written lots of things. This
last story is pretty good."
  "He doesn't amount to much," said Ames.
  Carrie turned her eyes toward him as to an oracle.
  "His stuff is nearly as bad as 'Dora Thorne,'" concluded Ames.
  Carrie felt this as a personal reproof. She read "Dora Thorne," or
had a great deal in the past. It seemed only fair to her, but she
supposed that people thought it very fine. Now this clear-eyed,
fine-headed youth, who looked something like a student to her, made
fun of it. It was poor to him, not worth reading. She looked down, and
for the first time felt the pain of not understanding.
  Yet there was nothing sarcastic or supercilious in the way Ames
spoke. He had very little of that in him. Carrie felt that it was just
kindly thought of a high order- the right thing to think, and wondered
what else was right, according to him. He seemed to notice that she
listened and rather sympathised with him, and from now on he talked
mostly to her.
  As the waiter bowed and scraped about, felt the dishes to see if
they were hot enough, brought spoons and forks, and did all those
little attentive things calculated to impress the luxury of the
situation upon the diner, Ames also leaned slightly to one side and
told her of Indianapolis in an intelligent way. He really had a very
bright mind, which was finding its chief development in electrical
knowledge. His sympathies for other forms of information, however, and
for types of people, were quick and warm. The red glow on his head
gave it a sandy tinge and put a bright glint in his eye. Carrie
noticed all these things as he leaned toward her and felt
exceedingly young. This man was far ahead of her. He seemed wiser than
Hurstwood, saner and brighter than Drouet. He seemed innocent and
clean, and she thought that he was exceedingly pleasant. She
noticed, also, that his interest in her was a far-off one. She was not
in his life, nor any of the things that touched his life, and yet now,
as he spoke of these things, they appealed to her.
  "I shouldn't care to be rich," he told her, as the dinner
proceeded and the supply of food warmed up his sympathies; "not rich
enough to spend my money this way."
  "Oh, wouldn't you?" said Carrie, the, to her, new attitude forcing
itself distinctly upon her for the first time.
  "No," he said. "What good would it do? A man doesn't need this
sort of thing to be happy."
  Carrie thought of this doubtfully; but, coming from him, it had
weight with her.
  "He probably could be happy," she thought to herself, "all alone.
He's so strong."
  Mr. and Mrs. Vance kept up a running fire of interruptions, and
these impressive things by Ames came at odd moments. They were
sufficient, however, for the atmosphere that went with this youth
impressed itself upon Carrie without words. There was something in
him, or the world he moved in, which appealed to her. He reminded
her of scenes she had seen on the stage- the sorrows and sacrifices
that always went with she knew not what. He had taken away some of the
bitterness of the contrast between this life and her life, and all
by a certain calm indifference which concerned only him.
  As they went out, he took her arm and helped her into the coach, and
then they were off again, and so to the show.
  During the acts Carrie found herself listening to him very
attentively. He mentioned things in the play which she most approved
of- things which swayed her deeply.
  "Don't you think it rather fine to be an actor?" she asked once.
  "Yes, I do," he said, "to be a good one. I think the theatre a great
thing."
  Just this little approval set Carrie's heart bounding. Ah, if she
could only be an actress- a good one! This man was wise- he knew-
and he approved of it. If she were a fine actress, such men as he
would approve of her. She felt that he was good to speak as he had,
although it did not concern her at all. She did not know why she
felt this way.
  At the close of the show it suddenly developed that he was not going
back with them.
  "Oh, aren't you?" said Carrie, with an unwarrantable feeling.
  "Oh, no," he said; "I'm stopping right around here in Thirty-third
Street."
  Carrie could not say anything else, but somehow this development
shocked her. She had been regretting the wane of a pleasant evening,
but she had thought there was a half-hour more. Oh, the half-hours,
the minutes of the world; what miseries and griefs are crowded into
them!
  She said good-bye with feigned indifference. What matter could it
make? Still, the coach seemed lorn.
  When she went into her own flat she had this to think about. She did
not know whether she would ever see this man any more. What difference
could it make- what difference could it make?
  Hurstwood had returned, and was already in bed. His clothes were
scattered loosely about. Carrie came to the door and saw him, then
retreated. She did not want to go in yet a while. She wanted to think.
It was disagreeable to her.
  Back in the dining-room she sat in her chair and rocked. Her
little hands were folded tightly as she thought. Through a fog of
longing and conflicting desires she was beginning to see. Oh, ye
legions of hope and pity- of sorrow and pain! She was rocking, and
beginning to see.
                      Chapter XXXIII.
       WITHOUT THE WALLED CITY: THE SLOPE OF THE YEARS

  The immediate result of this was nothing. Results from such things
are usually long in growing. Morning brings a change of feeling. The
existent condition invariably pleads for itself. It is only at odd
moments that we get glimpses of the misery of things. The heart
understands when it is confronted with contrasts. Take them away and
the ache subsides.
  Carrie went on, leading much this same life for six months
thereafter or more. She did not see Ames any more. He called once upon
the Vances, but she only heard about it through the young wife. Then
he went West, and there was a gradual subsidence of whatever
personal attraction had existed. The mental effect of the thing had
not gone, however, and never would entirely. She had an ideal to
contrast men by- particularly men close to her.
  During all this time- a period rapidly approaching three years-
Hurstwood had been moving along in an even path. There was no apparent
slope downward, and 'distinctly none upward, so far as the casual
observer might have seen. But psychologically there was a change,
which was marked enough to suggest the future very distinctly
indeed. This was in the mere matter of the halt his career had
received when he departed from Chicago. A man's fortune or material
progress is very much the same as his bodily growth. Either he is
growing stronger, healthier, wiser, as the youth approaching
manhood, or he is growing weaker, older, less incisive mentally, as
the man approaching old age. There are no other states. Frequently
there is a period between the cessation of youthful accretion and
the setting in, in the case of the middle-aged man, of the tendency
toward decay when the two processes are almost perfectly balanced
and there is little doing in either direction. Given time enough,
however, the balance becomes a sagging to the grave side. Slowly at
first, then with a modest momentum, and at last the graveward
process is in the full swing. So it is frequently with man's
fortune. If its process of accretion is never halted, if the balancing
stage is never reached, there will be no toppling. Rich men are,
frequently, in these days, saved from this dissolution of their
fortune by their ability to hire younger brains. These younger
brains look upon the interests of the fortune as their own, and so
steady and direct its progress. If each individual were left
absolutely to the care of his own interests, and were given time
enough in which to grow exceedingly old, his fortune would pass as his
strength and will. He and his would be utterly dissolved and scattered
unto the four winds of the heavens.
  But now see wherein the parallel changes. A fortune, like a man,
is an organism which draws to itself other minds and other strength
than that inherent in the founder. Beside the young minds drawn to
it by salaries, it becomes allied with young forces, which make for
its existence even when the strength and wisdom of the founder are
fading. It may be conserved by the growth of a community or of a
state. It may be involved in providing something for which there is
a growing demand. This removes it at once beyond the special care of
the founder. It needs not so much foresight now as direction. The
man wanes, the need continues or grows, and the fortune, fallen into
whose hands it may, continues. Hence, some men never recognise the
turning in the tide of their abilities. It is only in chance cases,
where a fortune or a state of success is wrested from them, that the
lack of ability to do as they did formerly becomes apparent.
Hurstwood, set down under new conditions, was in a position to see
that he was no longer young. If he did not, it was due wholly to the
fact that his state was so well balanced that an absolute change for
the worse did not show.
  Not trained to reason or introspect himself, he could not analyse
the change that was taking place in his mind, and hence his body,
but he felt the depression of it. Constant comparison between his
old state and his new showed a balance for the worse, which produced a
constant state of gloom or, at least, depression. Now, it has been
shown experimentally that a constantly subdued frame of mind
produces certain poisons in the blood, called katastates, just as
virtuous feelings of pleasure and delight produce helpful chemicals
called anastates. The poisons generated by remorse inveigh against the
system, and eventually produce marked physical deterioration. To these
Hurstwood was subject.
  In the course of time it told upon his temper. His eye no longer
possessed that buoyant, searching shrewdness which had characterised
it in Adams Street. His step was not as sharp and firm. He was given
to thinking, thinking, thinking. The new friends he made were not
celebrities. They were of a cheaper, a slightly more sensual and
cruder, grade. He could not possibly take the pleasure in this company
that he had in that of those fine frequenters of the Chicago resort.
He was left to brood.
  Slowly, exceedingly slowly, his desire to greet, conciliate, and
make at home these people who visited the Warren Street place passed
from him. More and more slowly the significance of the realm he had
left began to be clear. It did not seem so wonderful to be in it
when he was in it. It had seemed very easy for any one to get up there
and have ample raiment and money to spend, but now that he was out
of it, how far off it became. He began to see as one sees a city
with a wall about it. Men were posted at the gates. You could not
get in. Those inside did not care to come out to see who you were.
They were so merry inside there that all those outside were forgotten,
and he was on the outside.
  Each day he could read in the evening papers of the doings within
this walled city. In the notices of passengers for Europe he read
the names of eminent frequenters of his old resort. In the
theatrical column appeared, from time to time, announcements of the
latest successes of men he had known. He knew that they were at
their old gayeties. Pullmans were hauling them to and fro about the
land, papers were greeting them with interesting mentions, the elegant
lobbies of hotels and the glow of polished dining-rooms were keeping
them close within the walled city. Men whom he had known, men whom
he had tipped glasses with- rich men, and he was forgotten! Who was
Mr. Wheeler? What was the Warren Street resort? Bah!
  If one thinks that such thoughts do not come to so common a type
of mind- that such feelings require a higher mental development- I
would urge for their consideration the fact that it is the higher
mental development that does away with such thoughts. It is the higher
mental development which induces philosophy and that fortitude which
refuses to dwell upon such things- refuses to be made to suffer by
their consideration. The common type of mind is exceedingly keen on
all matters which relate to its physical welfare- exceedingly keen. It
is the unintellectual miser who sweats blood at the loss of a
hundred dollars. It is the Epictetus who smiles when the last
vestige of physical welfare is removed.
  The time came, in the third year, when this thinking began to
produce results in the Warren Street place. The tide of patronage
dropped a little below what it had been at its best since he had
been there. This irritated and worried him.
  There came a night when he confessed to Carrie that the business was
not doing as well this month as it had the month before. This was in
lieu of certain suggestions she had made concerning little things
she wanted to buy. She had not failed to notice that he did not seem
to consult her about buying clothes for himself. For the first time,
it struck her as a ruse, or that he said it so that she would not
think of asking for things. Her reply was mild enough, but her
thoughts were rebellious. He was not looking after her at all. She was
depending for her enjoyment upon the Vances.
  And now the latter announced that they were going away. It was
approaching spring, and they were going North.
  "Oh, yes," said Mrs. Vance to Carrie, "we think we might as well
give up the flat and store our things. We'll be gone for the summer,
and it would be a useless expense. I think we'll settle a little
farther down town when we come back."
  Carrie heard this with genuine sorrow. She had enjoyed Mrs.
Vance's companionship so much. There was no one else in the house whom
she knew. Again she would be all alone.
  Hurstwood's gloom over the slight decrease in profits and the
departure of the Vances came together. So Carrie had loneliness and
this mood of her husband to enjoy at the same time. It was a
grievous thing. She became restless and dissatisfied, not exactly,
as she thought, with Hurstwood, but with life. What was it? A very
dull round indeed. What did she have? Nothing but this narrow,
little flat. The Vances could travel, they could do the things worth
doing, and here she was. For what was she made, anyhow? More thought
followed, and then tears- tears seemed justified, and the only
relief in the world.
  For another period this state continued, the twain leading a
rather monotonous life, and then there was a slight change for the
worse. One evening, Hurstwood, after thinking about a way to modify
Carrie's desire for clothes and the general strain upon his ability to
provide, said:
  "I don't think I'll ever be able to do much with Shaughnessy."
  "What's the matter?" said Carrie.
  "Oh, he's a slow, greedy 'mick'! He won't agree to anything to
improve the place, and it won't ever pay without it."
  "Can't you make him?" said Carrie.
  "No; I've tried. The only thing I can see, if I want to improve,
is to get hold of a place of my own."
  "Why don't you?" said Carrie.
  "Well, all I have is tied up in there just now. If I had a chance to
save a while I think I could open a place that would give us plenty of
money."
  "Can't we save?" said Carrie.
  "We might try it," he suggested. "I've been thinking that if we'd
take a smaller flat down town and live economically for a year, I
would have enough, with what I have invested, to open a good place.
Then we could arrange to live as you want to."
  "It would suit me all right," said Carrie, who, nevertheless, felt
badly to think it had come to this. Talk of a smaller flat sounded
like poverty.
  "There are lots of nice little flats down around Sixth Avenue, below
Fourteenth Street. We might get one down there."
  "I'll look at them if you say so," said Carrie.
  "I think I could break away from this fellow inside of a year," said
Hurstwood. "Nothing will ever come of this arrangement as it's going
on now."
  "I'll look around," said Carrie, observing that the proposed
change seemed to be a serious thing with him.
  The upshot of this was that the change was eventually effected;
not without great gloom on the part of Carrie. It really affected
her more seriously than anything that had yet happened. She began to
look upon Hurstwood wholly as a man, and not as a lover or husband.
She felt thoroughly bound to him as a wife, and that her lot was
cast with his, whatever it might be; but she began to see that he
was gloomy and taciturn, not a young, strong, and buoyant man. He
looked a little bit old to her about the eyes and mouth now, and there
were other things which placed him in his true rank, so far as her
estimation was concerned. She began to feel that she had made a
mistake. Incidentally, she also began to recall the fact that he had
practically forced her to flee with him.
  The new flat was located in Thirteenth Street, a half block west
of Sixth Avenue, and contained only four rooms. The new
neighbourhood did not appeal to Carrie as much. There were no trees
here, no west view of the river. The street was solidly built up.
There were twelve families here, respectable enough, but nothing
like the Vances. Richer people required more space.
  Being left alone in this little place, Carrie did without a girl.
She made it charming enough, but could not make it delight her.
Hurstwood was not inwardly pleased to think that they should have to
modify their state, but he argued that he could do nothing. He must
put the best face on it, and let it go at that.
  He tried to show Carrie that there was no cause for financial alarm,
but only congratulation over the chance he would have at the end of
the year by taking her rather more frequently to the theatre and by
providing a liberal table. This was for the time only. He was
getting in the frame of mind where he wanted principally to be alone
and to be allowed to think. The disease of brooding was beginning to
claim him as a victim. Only the newspapers and his own thoughts were
worth while. The delight of love had again slipped away. It was a case
of live, now, making the best you can out of a very commonplace
station in life.
  The road downward has but few landings and level places. The very
state of his mind, superinduced by his condition, caused the breach to
widen between him and his partner. At last that individual began to
wish that Hurstwood was out of it. It so happened, however, that a
real estate deal on the part of the owner of the land arranged
things even more effectually than ill-will could have schemed.
  "Did you see that?" said Shaughnessy one morning to Hurstwood,
pointing to the real estate column in a copy of the "Herald," which he
held.
  "No, what is it?" said Hurstwood, looking down the items of news.
  "The man who owns this ground has sold it."
  "You don't say so?" said Hurstwood.
  He looked, and there was the notice. Mr. August Viele had
yesterday registered the transfer of the lot, 25 x 75 feet, at the
corner of Warren and Hudson streets, to J. F. Slawson for the sum of
$57,000.
  "Our lease expires when?" asked Hurstwood, thinking. "Next February,
isn't it?"
  "That's right," said Shaughnessy.
  "It doesn't say what the new man's going to do with it," remarked
Hurstwood, looking back to the paper.
  "We'll hear, I guess, soon enough," said Shaughnessy.
  Sure enough, it did develop. Mr. Slawson owned the property
adjoining, and was going to put up a modern office building. The
present one was to be torn down. It would take probably a year and a
half to complete the other one.
  All these things developed by degrees, and Hurstwood began to ponder
over what would become of the saloon. One day he spoke about it to his
partner.
  "Do you think it would be worth while to open up somewhere else in
the neighbourhood?"
  "What would be the use?" said Shaughnessy. "We couldn't get
another corner around here."
  "It wouldn't pay anywhere else, do you think?"
  "I wouldn't try it," said the other.
  The approaching change now took on a most serious aspect to
Hurstwood. Dissolution meant the loss of his thousand dollars, and
he could not save another thousand in the time. He understood that
Shaughnessy was merely tired of the arrangement, and would probably
lease the new corner, when completed, alone. He began to worry about
the necessity of a new connection and to see impending serious
financial straits unless something turned up. This left him in no mood
to enjoy his flat or Carrie, and consequently the depression invaded
that quarter.
  Meanwhile, he took such time as he could to look about, but
opportunities were not numerous. More, he had not the same
impressive personality which he had when he first came to New York.
Bad thoughts had put a shade into his eyes which did not impress
others favourably. Neither had he thirteen hundred dollars in hand
to talk with. About a month later, finding that he had not made any
progress, Shaughnessy reported definitely that Slawson would not
extend the lease.
  "I guess this thing's got to come to an end," he said, affecting
an air of concern.
  "Well, if it has, it has," answered Hurstwood, grimly. He would
not give the other a key to his opinions, whatever they were. He
should not have the satisfaction.
  A day or two later he saw that he must say something to Carrie.
  "You know," he said, "I think I'm going to get the worst of my
deal down there."
  "How is that?" asked Carrie in astonishment.
  "Well, the man who owns the ground has sold it, and the new owner
won't re-lease it to us. The business may come to an end."
  "Can't you start somewhere else?"
  "There doesn't seem to be any place. Shaughnessy doesn't want to."
  "Do you lose what you put in?"
  "Yes," said Hurstwood, whose face was a study.
  "Oh, isn't that too bad?" said Carrie.
  "It's a trick," said Hurstwood. "That's all. They'll start another
place there all right."
  Carrie looked at him, and gathered from his whole demeanour what
it meant. It was serious, very serious.
  "Do you think you can get something else?" she ventured, timidly.
  Hurstwood thought a while. It was all up with the bluff about
money and investment. She could see now that he was "broke."
  "I don't know," he said solemnly; "I can try."
                      Chapter XXXIV.
       THE GRIND OF THE MILLSTONES: A SAMPLE OF CHAFF

  Carrie pondered over this situation as consistently as Hurstwood,
once she got the facts adjusted in her mind. It took several days
for her to fully realise that the approach of the dissolution of her
husband's business meant commonplace struggle and privation. Her
mind went back to her early venture in Chicago, the Hansons and
their flat, and her heart revolted. That was terrible! Everything
about poverty was terrible. She wished she knew a way out. Her
recent experiences with the Vances had wholly unfitted her to view her
own state with complacence. The glamour of the high life of the city
had, in the few experiences afforded her by the former, seized her
completely. She had been taught how to dress and where to go without
having ample means to do either. Now, these things- ever-present
realities as they were- filled her eyes and mind. The more
circumscribed became her state, the more entrancing seemed this other.
And now poverty threatened to seize her entirely and to remove this
other world far upward like a heaven to which any Lazarus might
extend, appealingly, his hands.
  So, too, the ideal brought into her life by Ames remained. He had
gone, but here was his word that riches were not everything; that
there was a great deal more in the world than she knew; that the stage
was good, and the literature she read poor. He was a strong man and
clean- how much stronger and better than Hurstwood and Drouet she only
half formulated to herself, but the difference was painful. It was
something to which she voluntarily closed her eyes.
  During the last three months of the Warren Street connection,
Hurstwood took parts of days off and hunted, tracking the business
advertisements. It was a more or less depressing business, wholly
because of the thought that he must soon get something or he would
begin to live on the few hundred dollars he was saving, and then he
would have nothing to invest- he would have to hire out as a clerk.
  Everything he discovered in his line advertised as an opportunity,
was either too expensive or too wretched for him. Besides, winter
was coming, the papers were announcing hardships, and there was a
general feeling of hard times in the air, or, at least, he thought so.
In his worry, other people's worries became apparent. No item about
a firm failing, a family starving, or a man dying upon the streets,
supposedly of starvation, but arrested his eye as he scanned the
morning papers. Once the "World" came out with a flaring
announcement about "80,000 people out of employment in New York this
winter," which struck as a knife at his heart.
  "Eighty thousand!" he thought. "What an awful thing that is."
  This was new reasoning for Hurstwood. In the old days the world
had seemed to be getting along well enough. He had been wont to see
similar things in the "Daily News," in Chicago, but they did not
hold his attention. Now, these things were like grey clouds hovering
along the horizon of a clear day. They threatened to cover and obscure
his life with chilly greyness. He tried to shake them off, to forget
and brace up. Sometimes he said to himself, mentally:
  "What's the use worrying? I'm not out yet. I've got six weeks
more. Even if worst comes to worst, I've got enough to live on for six
months."
  Curiously, as he troubled over his future, his thoughts occasionally
reverted to his wife and family. He had avoided such thoughts for
the first three years as much as possible. He hated her, and he
could get along without her. Let her go. He would do well enough. Now,
however, when he was not doing well enough, he began to wonder what
she was doing, how his children were getting along. He could see
them living as nicely as ever, occupying the comfortable house and
using his property.
  "By George! it's a shame they should have it all," he vaguely
thought to himself on several occasions. "I didn't do anything."
  As he looked back now and analysed the situation which led up to his
taking the money, he began mildly to justify himself. What had he
done- what in the world- that should bar him out this way and heap
such difficulties upon him? It seemed only yesterday to him since he
was comfortable and well-to-do. But now it was all wrested from him.
  "She didn't deserve what she got out of me, that is sure. I didn't
do so much, if everybody could just know."
  There was no thought that the facts ought to be advertised. It was
only a mental justification he was seeking from himself- something
that would enable him to bear his state as a righteous man.
  One afternoon, five weeks before the Warren Street place closed
up, he left the saloon to visit three or four places he saw advertised
in the "Herald." One was down in Gold Street, and he visited that, but
did not enter. It was such a cheap looking place he felt that he could
not abide it. Another was on the Bowery, which he knew contained
many showy resorts. It was near Grand Street, and turned out to be
very handsomely fitted up. He talked around about investments for
fully three-quarters of an hour with the proprietor, who maintained
that his health was poor, and that was the reason he wished a partner.
  "Well, now, just how much money would it take to buy a half interest
here?" said Hurstwood, who saw seven hundred dollars as his limit.
  "Three thousand," said the man.
  Hurstwood's jaw fell.
  "Cash?" he said.
  "Cash."
  He tried to put on an air of deliberation, as one who might really
buy; but his eyes showed gloom. He wound up by saying he would think
it over, and came away. The man he had been talking to sensed his
condition in a vague way.
  "I don't think he wants to buy," he said to himself. "He doesn't
talk right."
  The afternoon was as grey as lead and cold. It was blowing up a
disagreeable winter wind. He visited a place far up on the east
side, near Sixty-ninth Street, and it was five o'clock, and growing
dim, when he reached there. A portly German kept this place.
  "How about this ad. of yours?" asked Hurstwood, who rather
objected to the looks of the place.
  "Oh, dat iss all over," said the German. "I vill not sell now."
  "Oh, is that so?"
  "Yes; dere is nothing to dat. It iss all over."
  "Very well," said Hurstwood, turning around.
  The German paid no more attention to him, and it made him angry.
  "The crazy ass!" he said to himself. "What does he want to advertise
for?"
  Wholly depressed, he started for Thirteenth Street. The flat had
only a light in the kitchen, where Carrie was working. He struck a
match and, lighting the gas, sat down in the dining-room without
even greeting her. She came to the door and looked in.
  "It's you, is it?" she said, and went back.
  "Yes," he said, without even looking up from the evening paper he
had bought.
  Carrie saw things were wrong with him. He was not so handsome when
gloomy. The lines at the sides of the eyes were deepened. Naturally
dark of skin, gloom made him look slightly sinister. He was quite a
disagreeable figure.
  Carrie set the table and brought in the meal.
  "Dinner's ready," she said, passing him for something.
  He did not answer, reading on.
  She came in and sat down at her place, feeling exceedingly wretched.
  "Won't you eat now?" she asked.
  He folded his paper and drew near, silence holding for a time,
except for the "Pass me's."
  "It's been gloomy to-day, hasn't it?" ventured Carrie, after a time.
  "Yes," he said.
  He only picked at his food.
  "Are you still sure to close up?" said Carrie, venturing to take
up the subject which they had discussed often enough.
  "Of course we are," he said, with the slightest modification of
sharpness.
  This retort angered Carrie. She had had a dreary day of it herself.
  "You needn't talk like that," she said.
  "Oh!" he exclaimed, pushing back from the table, as if to say
more, but letting it go at that. Then he picked up his paper. Carrie
left her seat, containing herself with difficulty. He saw she was
hurt.
  "Don't go 'way," he said, as she started back into the kitchen. "Eat
your dinner."
  She passed, not answering.
  He looked at the paper a few moments, and then rose up and put on
his coat.
  "I'm going down town, Carrie," he said, coming out. "I'm out of
sorts to-night."
  She did not answer.
  "Don't be angry," he said. "It will be all right to-morrow."
  He looked at her, but she paid no attention to him, working at her
dishes.
  "Good-bye!" he said finally, and went out.
  This was the first strong result of the situation between them,
but with the nearing of the last day of business the gloom became
almost a permanent thing. Hurstwood could not conceal his feelings
about the matter. Carrie could not help wondering where she was
drifting. It got so that they talked even less than usual, and yet
it was not Hurstwood who felt any objection to Carrie. It was Carrie
who shied away from him. This he noticed. It aroused an objection to
her becoming indifferent to him. He made the possibility of friendly
intercourse almost a giant task, and then noticed with discontent that
Carrie added to it by her manner and made it more impossible.
  At last the final day came. When it actually arrived, Hurstwood, who
had got his mind into such a state where a thunder-clap and raging
storm would have seemed highly appropriate, was rather relieved to
find that it was a plain, ordinary day. The sun shone, the temperature
was pleasant. He felt, as he came to the breakfast table, that it
wasn't so terrible, after all.
  "Well," he said to Carrie, "to-day's my last day on earth."
  Carrie smiled in answer to his humour.
  Hurstwood glanced over his paper rather gayly. He seemed to have
lost a load.
  "I'll go down for a little while," he said after breakfast, "and
then I'll look around. To-morrow I'll spend the whole day looking
about. I think I can get something, now this thing's off my hands."
  He went out smiling and visited the place. Shaughnessy was there.
They had made all arrangements to share according to their
interests. When, however, he had been there several hours, gone out
three more, and returned, his elation had departed. As much as he
had objected to the place, now that it was no longer to exist, he felt
sorry. He wished that things were different.
  Shaughnessy was coolly business-like.
  "Well," he said at five o'clock, "we might as well count the
change and divide."
  They did so. The fixtures had already been sold and the sum divided.
  "Good-night," said Hurstwood at the final moment, in a last effort
to be genial.
  "So long," said Shaughnessy, scarcely deigning a notice.
  Thus the Warren Street arrangement was permanently concluded.
  Carrie had prepared a good dinner at the flat, but after his ride
up, Hurstwood was in a solemn and reflective mood.
  "Well?" said Carrie, inquisitively.
  "I'm out of that," he answered, taking off his coat.
  As she looked at him, she wondered what his financial state was now.
They ate and talked a little.
  "Will you have enough to buy in anywhere else?" asked Carrie.
  "No," he said. "I'll have to get something else and save up."
  "It would be nice if you could get some place," said Carrie,
prompted by anxiety and hope.
  "I guess I will," he said reflectively.
  For some days thereafter he put on his overcoat regularly in the
morning and sallied forth. On these ventures he first consoled himself
with the thought that with the seven hundred dollars he had he could
still make some advantageous arrangement. He thought about going to
some brewery, which, as he knew, frequently controlled saloons which
they leased, and get them to help him. Then he remembered that he
would have to pay out several hundred any way for fixtures and that he
would have nothing left for his monthly expenses. It was costing him
nearly eighty dollars a month to live.
  "No," he said, in his sanest moments, "I can't do it. I'll get
something else and save up."
  This getting-something proposition complicated itself the moment
he began to think of what it was he wanted to do. Manage a place?
Where should he get such a position? The papers contained no
requests for managers. Such positions, he knew well enough, were
either secured by long years of service or were bought with a half
or third interest. Into a place important enough to need such a
manager he had not money enough to buy.
  Nevertheless, he started out. His clothes were very good and his
appearance still excellent, but it involved the trouble of deluding.
People, looking at him, imagined instantly that a man of his age,
stout and well dressed, must be well off. He appeared a comfortable
owner of something, a man from whom the common run of mortals could
well expect gratuities. Being now forty-three years of age, and
comfortably built, walking was not easy. He had not been used to
exercise for many years. His legs tired, his shoulders ached, and
his feet pained him at the close of the day, even when he took
street cars in almost every direction. The mere getting up and down,
if long continued, produced this result.
  The fact that people took him to be better off than he was, he
well understood. It was so painfully clear to him that it retarded his
search. Not that he wished to be less well-appearing, but that he
was ashamed to belie his appearance by incongruous appeals. So he
hesitated, wondering what to do.
  He thought of the hotels, but instantly he remembered that he had
had no experience as a clerk, and, what was more important, no
acquaintances or friends in that line to whom he could go. He did know
some hotel owners in several cities, including New York, but they knew
of his dealings with Fitzgerald and Moy. He could not apply to them.
He thought of other lines suggested by large buildings or businesses
which he knew of- wholesale groceries, hardware, insurance concerns,
and the like- but he had had no experience.
  How to go about getting anything was a bitter thought. Would he have
to go personally and ask; wait outside an office door, and, then,
distinguished and affluent looking, announce that he was looking for
something to do? He strained painfully at the thought. No, he could
not do that.
  He really strolled about, thinking, and then, the weather being
cold, stepped into a hotel. He knew hotels well enough to know that
any decent looking individual was welcome to a chair in the lobby.
This was in the Broadway Central, which was then one of the most
important hotels in the city. Taking a chair here was a painful
thing to him. To think he should come to this! He had heard loungers
about hotels called chair-warmers. He had called them that himself
in his day. But here he was, despite the possibility of meeting some
one who knew him, shielding himself from cold and the weariness of the
streets in a hotel lobby.
  "I can't do this way," he said to himself. "There's no use of my
starting out mornings without first thinking up some place to go. I'll
think of some places and then look them up."
  It occurred to him that the positions of bartenders were sometimes
open, but he put this out of his mind. Bartender- he, the ex-manager!
  It grew awfully dull sitting in the hotel lobby, and so at four he
went home. He tried to put on a business air as he went in, but it was
a feeble imitation. The rocking-chair in the dining-room was
comfortable. He sank into it gladly, with several papers he had
bought, and began to read.
  As she was going through the room to begin preparing dinner,
Carrie said:
  "The man was here for the rent to-day."
  "Oh, was he?" said Hurstwood.
  The least wrinkle crept into his brow as he remembered that this was
February 2d, the time the man always called. He fished down in his
pocket for his purse, getting the first taste of paying out when
nothing is coming in. He looked at the fat, green roll as a sick man
looks at the one possible saving cure. Then he counted off
twenty-eight dollars.
  "Here you are," he said to Carrie, when she came through again.
  He buried himself in his papers and read. Oh, the rest of it- the
relief from walking and thinking! What Lethean waters were these
floods of telegraphed intelligence! He forgot his troubles, in part.
Here was a young, handsome woman, if you might believe the newspaper
drawing, suing a rich, fat, candy-making husband in Brooklyn for
divorce. Here was another item detailing the wrecking of a vessel in
ice and snow off Prince's Bay on Staten Island. A long, bright
column told of the doings in the theatrical world- the plays produced,
the actors appearing, the managers making announcements. Fannie
Davenport was just opening at the Fifth Avenue. Daly was producing
"King Lear." He read of the early departure for the season of a
party composed of the Vanderbilts and their friends for Florida. An
interesting shooting affray was on in the mountains of Kentucky. So he
read, read, read, rocking in the warm room near the radiator and
waiting for dinner to be served.
                       Chapter XXXV.
          THE PASSING OF EFFORT: THE VISAGE OF CARE

  The next morning he looked over the papers and waded through a
long list of advertisements, making a few notes. Then he turned to the
male-help-wanted column, but with disagreeable feelings. The day was
before him- a long day in which to discover something- and this was
how he must begin to discover. He scanned the long column, which
mostly concerned bakers, bushel-men, cooks, compositors, drivers,
and the like, finding two things only which arrested his eye. One
was a cashier wanted in a wholesale furniture house, and the other a
salesman for a whiskey house. He had never thought of the latter. At
once he decided to look that up.
  The firm in question was Alsbery & Co., whiskey brokers.
  He was admitted almost at once to the manager on his appearance.
  "Good-morning, sir," said the latter, thinking at first that he
was encountering one of his out-of-town customers.
  "Good-morning," said Hurstwood. "You advertised, I believe, for a
salesman?"
  "Oh," said the man, showing plainly the enlightenment which had come
to him. "Yes. Yes, I did."
  "I thought I'd drop in," said Hurstwood, with dignity. "I've had
some experience in that line myself."
  "Oh, have you?" said the man. "What experience have you had?"
  "Well, I've managed several liquor houses in my time. Recently I
owned a third-interest in a saloon at Warren and Hudson streets."
  "I see," said the man.
  Hurstwood ceased, waiting for some suggestion.
  "We did want a salesman," said the man. "I don't know as it's
anything you'd care to take hold of, though."
  "I see," said Hurstwood. "Well, I'm in no position to choose, at
present. If it were open, I should be glad to get it."
  The man did not take kindly at all to his "No position to choose."
He wanted some one who wasn't thinking of a choice or something
better. Especially not an old man. He wanted some one young, active,
and glad to work actively for a moderate sum. Hurstwood did not please
him at all. He had more of an air than his employers.
  "Well," he said in answer, "we'd be glad to consider your
application. We shan't decide for a few days yet. Suppose you send
us your references."
  "I will," said Hurstwood.
  He nodded good-morning and came away. At the corner he looked at the
furniture company's address, and saw that it was in West
Twenty-third Street. Accordingly, he went up there. The place was
not large enough, however. It looked moderate, the men in it idle
and small salaried. He walked by, glancing in, and then decided not to
go in there.
  "They want a girl, probably, at ten a week," he said.
  At one o'clock he thought of eating, and went to a restaurant in
Madison Square. There he pondered over places which he might look
up. He was tired. It was blowing up grey again. Across the way,
through Madison Square Park, stood the great hotels, looking down upon
a busy scene. He decided to go over to the lobby of one and sit a
while. It was warm in there and bright. He had seen no one he knew
at the Broadway Central. In all likelihood he would encounter no one
here. Finding a seat on one of the red plush divans close to the great
windows which look out on Broadway's busy rout, he sat musing. His
state did not seem so bad in here. Sitting still and looking out, he
could take some slight consolation in the few hundred dollars he had
in his purse. He could forget, in a measure, the weariness of the
street and his tiresome searches. Still, it was only escape from a
severe to a less severe state. He was still gloomy and disheartened.
There, minutes seemed to go very slowly. An hour was a long, long time
in passing. It was filled for him with observations and mental
comments concerning the actual guests of the hotel, who passed in
and out, and those more prosperous pedestrians whose good fortune
showed in their clothes and spirits as they passed along Broadway,
outside. It was nearly the first time since he had arrived in the city
that his leisure afforded him ample opportunity to contemplate this
spectacle. Now, being, perforce, idle himself, he wondered at the
activity of others. How gay were the youths he saw, how pretty the
women. Such fine clothes they all wore. They were so intent upon
getting somewhere. He saw coquettish glances cast by magnificent
girls. Ah, the money it required to train with such- how well he knew!
How long it had been since he had had the opportunity to do so!
  The clock outside registered four. It was a little early, but he
thought he would go back to the flat.
  This going back to the flat was coupled with the thought that Carrie
would think he was sitting around too much if he came home early. He
hoped he wouldn't have to, but the day hung heavily on his hands. Over
there he was on his own ground. He could sit in his rocking-chair
and read. This busy, distracting, suggestive scene was shut out. He
could read his papers. Accordingly, he went home. Carrie was
reading, quite alone. It was rather dark in the flat, shut in as it
was.
  "You'll hurt your eyes," he said when he saw her.
  After taking off his coat, he felt it incumbent upon him to make
some little report of his day.
  "I've been talking with a wholesale liquor company," he said. "I may
go out on the road."
  "Wouldn't that be nice!" said Carrie.
  "It wouldn't be such a bad thing," he answered.
  Always from the man at the corner now he bought two papers- the
"Evening World" and "Evening Sun." So now he merely picked his
papers up, as he came by, without stopping.
  He drew up his chair near the radiator and lighted the gas. Then
it was as the evening before. His difficulties vanished in the items
he so well loved to read.
  The next day was even worse than the one before, because now he
could not think of where to go. Nothing he saw in the papers he
studied- till ten o'clock- appealed to him. He felt that he ought to
go out, and yet he sickened at the thought. Where to, where to?
  "You mustn't forget to leave me my money for this week," said
Carrie, quietly.
  They had an arrangement by which he placed twelve dollars a week
in her hands, out of which to pay current expenses. He heaved a little
sigh as she said this, and drew out his purse. Again he felt the dread
of the thing. Here he was taking off, taking off, and nothing coming
in.
  "Lord!" he said, in his own thoughts, "this can't go on."
  To Carrie he said nothing whatsoever. She could feel that her
request disturbed him. To pay her would soon become a distressing
thing.
  "Yet, what have I got to do with it?" she thought. "Oh, why should I
be made to worry?"
  Hurstwood went out and made for Broadway. He wanted to think up some
place. Before long, though, he reached the Grand Hotel at Thirty-first
Street. He knew of its comfortable lobby. He was cold after his twenty
blocks' walk.
  "I'll go in their barber shop and get a shave," he thought.
  Thus he justified himself in sitting down in here after his
tonsorial treatment.
  Again, time hanging heavily on his hands, he went home early, and
this continued for several days, each day the need to hunt paining
him, and each day disgust, depression, shamefacedness driving him into
lobby idleness.
  At last three days came in which a storm prevailed, and he did not
go out at all. The snow began to fall late one afternoon. It was a
regular flurry of large, soft, white flakes. In the morning it was
still coming down with a high wind, and the papers announced a
blizzard. From out the front windows one could see a deep, soft
bedding.
  "I guess I'll not try to go out to-day," he said to Carrie at
breakfast. "It's going to be awful bad, so the papers say."
  "The man hasn't brought my coal, either," said Carrie, who ordered
by the bushel.
  "I'll go over and see about it," said Hurstwood. This was the
first time he had ever suggested doing an errand, but, somehow, the
wish to sit about the house prompted it as a sort of compensation
for the privilege.
  All day and all night it snowed, and the city began to suffer from a
general blockade of traffic. Great attention was given to the
details of the storm by the newspapers, which played up the distress
of the poor in large type.
  Hurstwood sat and read by his radiator in the corner. He did not try
to think about his need of work. This storm being so terrific, and
tying up all things, robbed him of the need. He made himself wholly
comfortable and toasted his feet.
  Carrie observed his ease with some misgiving. For all the fury of
the storm she doubted his comfort. He took his situation too
philosophically.
  Hurstwood, however, read on and on. He did not pay much attention to
Carrie. She fulfilled her household duties and said little to
disturb him.
  The next day it was still snowing, and the next, bitter cold.
Hurstwood took the alarm of the paper and sat still. Now he
volunteered to do a few other little things. One was to go to the
butcher, another to the grocery. He really thought nothing of these
little services in connection with their true significance. He felt as
if he were not wholly useless- indeed, in such a stress of weather,
quite worth while about the house.
  On the fourth day, however, it cleared, and he read that the storm
was over. Now, however, he idled, thinking how sloppy the streets
would be.
  It was noon before he finally abandoned his papers and got under
way. Owing to the slightly warmer temperature the streets were bad. He
went across Fourteenth Street on the car and got a transfer south on
Broadway. One little advertisement he had, relating to a saloon down
in Pearl Street. When he reached the Broadway Central, however, he
changed his mind.
  "What's the use?" he thought, looking out upon the slop and snow. "I
couldn't buy into it. It's a thousand to one nothing comes of it. I
guess I'll get off," and off he got. In the lobby he took a seat and
waited again, wondering what he could do.
  While he was idly pondering, satisfied to be inside, a
well-dressed man passed up the lobby, stopped, looked sharply, as if
not sure of his memory, and then approached. Hurstwood recognised
Cargill, the owner of the large stables in Chicago of the same name,
whom he had last seen at Avery Hall, the night Carrie appeared
there. The remembrance of how this individual brought up his wife to
shake hands on that occasion was also on the instant clear.
  Hurstwood was greatly abashed. His eyes expressed the difficulty
he felt.
  "Why, it's Hurstwood!" said Cargill, remembering now, and sorry that
he had not recognised him quickly enough in the beginning to have
avoided this meeting.
  "Yes," said Hurstwood. "How are you?"
  "Very well," said Cargill, troubled for something to talk about.
"Stopping here?"
  "No," said Hurstwood, "just keeping an appointment."
  "I knew you had left Chicago. I was wondering what had become of
you."
  "Oh, I'm here now," answered Hurstwood, anxious to get away.
  "Doing well, I suppose?"
  "Excellent."
  "Glad to hear it."
  They looked at one another, rather embarrassed.
  "Well, I have an engagement with a friend upstairs. I'll leave
you. So long."
  Hurstwood nodded his head.
  "Damn it all," he murmured, turning toward the door. "I knew that
would happen."
  He walked several blocks up the street. His watch only registered
1.30. He tried to think of some place to go or something to do. The
day was so bad he wanted only to be inside. Finally his feet began
to feel wet and cold, and he boarded a car. This took him to
Fifty-ninth Street, which was as good as anywhere else. Landed here,
he turned to walk back along Seventh Avenue, but the slush was too
much. The misery of lounging about with nowhere to go became
intolerable. He felt as if he were catching cold.
  Stopping at a corner, he waited for a car south bound. This was no
day to be out; he would go home.
  Carrie was surprised to see him at a quarter of three.
  "It's a miserable day out," was all he said. Then he took off his
coat and changed his shoes.
  That night he felt a cold coming on and took quinine. He was
feverish until morning, and sat about the next day while Carrie waited
on him. He was a helpless creature in sickness, not very handsome in a
dull-coloured bath gown and his hair uncombed. He looked haggard about
the eyes and quite old. Carrie noticed this, and it did not appeal
to her. She wanted to be good-natured and sympathetic, but something
about the man held her aloof.
  Toward evening he looked so badly in the weak light that she
suggested he go to bed.
  "You'd better sleep alone," she said, "you'll feel better. I'll open
your bed for you now."
  "All right," he said.
  As she did all these things, she was in a most despondent state.
  "What a life! What a life!" was her one thought.
  Once during the day, when he sat near the radiator, hunched up and
reading, she passed through, and seeing him, wrinkled her brows. In
the front room, where it was not so warm, she sat by the window and
cried. This was the life cut out for her, was it? To live cooped up in
a small flat with some one who was out of work, idle, and
indifferent to her. She was merely a servant to him now, nothing more.
  This crying made her eyes red, and when, in preparing his bed, she
lighted the gas, and, having prepared it, called him in, he noticed
the fact.
  "What's the matter with you?" he asked, looking into her face. His
voice was hoarse and his unkempt head only added to its grewsome
quality.
  "Nothing," said Carrie, weakly.
  "You've been crying," he said.
  "I haven't either," she answered.
  It was not for love of him, that he knew.
  "You needn't cry," he said, getting into bed. "Things will come
out all right."
  In a day or two he was up again, but rough weather holding, he
stayed in. The Italian newsdealer now delivered the morning papers,
and these he read assiduously. A few times after that he ventured out,
but meeting another of his old-time friends, he began to feel uneasy
sitting about hotel corridors.
  Every day he came home early, and at last made no pretence of
going anywhere. Winter was no time to look for anything.
  Naturally, being about the house, he noticed the way Carrie did
things. She was far from perfect in household methods and economy, and
her little deviations on this score first caught his eye. Not,
however, before her regular demand for her allowance became a grievous
thing. Sitting around as he did, the weeks seemed to pass very
quickly. Every Tuesday Carrie asked for her money.
  "Do you think we live as cheaply as we might?" he asked one
Tuesday morning.
  "I do the best I can," said Carrie.
  Nothing was added to this at the moment, but the next day he said:
  "Do you ever go to the Gansevoort Market over here?"
  "I didn't know there was such a market," said Carrie.
  "They say you can get things lots cheaper there."
  Carrie was very indifferent to the suggestion. These were things
which she did not like at all.
  "How much do you pay for a pound of meat?" he asked one day.
  "Oh, there are different prices," said Carrie. "Sirloin steak is
twenty-two cents."
  "That's steep, isn't it?" he answered.
  So he asked about other things, until finally, with the passing
days, it seemed to become a mania with him. He learned the prices
and remembered them.
  His errand-running capacity also improved. It began in a small
way, of course. Carrie, going to get her hat one morning, was
stopped by him.
  "Where are you going, Carrie?" he asked.
  "Over to the baker's," she answered.
  "I'd just as leave go for you," he said.
  She acquiesced, and he went. Each afternoon he would go to the
corner for the papers.
  "Is there anything you want?" he would say.
  By degrees she began to use him. Doing this, however, she lost the
weekly payment of twelve dollars.
  "You want to pay me to-day," she said one Tuesday, about this time.
  "How much?" he asked.
  She understood well enough what it meant.
  "Well, about five dollars," she answered. "I owe the coal man."
  The same day he said:
  "I think this Italian up here on the corner sells coal at
twenty-five cents a bushel. I'll trade with him."
  Carrie heard this with indifference.
  "All right," she said.
  Then it came to be:
  "George, I must have some coal to-day," or, "You must get some
meat of some kind for dinner."
  He would find out what she needed and order.
  Accompanying this plan came skimpiness.
  "I only got a half-pound of steak," he said, coming in one afternoon
with his papers. "We never seem to eat very much."
  These miserable details ate the heart out of Carrie. They
blackened her days and grieved her soul. Oh, how this man had changed!
All day and all day, here he sat, reading his papers. The world seemed
to have no attraction. Once in a while he would go out, in fine
weather, it might be four or five hours, between eleven and four.
She could do nothing but view him with gnawing contempt.
  It was apathy with Hurstwood, resulting from his inability to see
his way out. Each month drew from his small store. Now, he had only
five hundred dollars left, and this he hugged, half feeling as if he
could stave off absolute necessity for an indefinite period. Sitting
around the house, he decided to wear some old clothes he had. This
came first with the bad days. Only once he apologised in the very
beginning:
  "It's so bad to-day, I'll just wear these around."
  Eventually these became the permanent thing.
  Also, he had been wont to pay fifteen cents for a shave, and a tip
of ten cents. In his first distress, he cut down the tip to five, then
to nothing. Later, he tried a ten-cent barber shop, and, finding
that the shave was satisfactory, patronised regularly. Later still, he
put off shaving to every other day, then to every third, and so on,
until once a week became the rule. On Saturday he was a sight to see.
  Of course, as his own self-respect vanished, it perished for him
in Carrie. She could not understand what had gotten into the man. He
had some money, he had a decent suit remaining, he was not bad looking
when dressed up. She did not forget her own difficult struggle in
Chicago, but she did not forget either that she had never ceased
trying. He never tried. He did not even consult the ads. in the papers
any more.
  Finally, a distinct impression escaped from her.
  "What makes you put so much butter on the steak?" he asked her one
evening, standing around in the kitchen.
  "To make it good, of course," she answered.
  "Butter is awful dear these days," he suggested.
  "You wouldn't mind it if you were working," she answered.
  He shut up after this, and went in to his paper, but the retort
rankled in his mind. It was the first cutting remark that had come
from her.
  That same evening, Carrie, after reading, went off to the front room
to bed. This was unusual. When Hurstwood decided to go, he retired, as
usual, without a light. It was then that he discovered Carrie's
absence.
  "That's funny," he said; "maybe she's sitting up."
  He gave the matter no more thought, but slept. In the morning she
was not beside him. Strange to say, this passed without comment.
  Night approaching, and a slightly more conversational feeling
prevailing, Carrie said:
  "I think I'll sleep alone to-night. I have a headache."
  "All right," said Hurstwood.
  The third night she went to her front bed without apologies.
  This was a grim blow to Hurstwood, but he never mentioned it.
  "All right," he said to himself, with an irrepressible frown, "let
her sleep alone."
                      Chapter XXXVI.
        A GRIM RETROGRESSION: THE PHANTOM OF CHANCE

  The Vances, who had been back in the city ever since Christmas,
had not forgotten Carrie; but they, or rather Mrs. Vance, had never
called on her, for the very simple reason that Carrie had never sent
her address. True to her nature, she corresponded with Mrs. Vance as
long as she still lived in Seventy-eighth Street, but when she was
compelled to move into Thirteenth, her fear that the latter would take
it as an indication of reduced circumstances caused her to study
some way of avoiding the necessity of giving her address. Not
finding any convenient method, she sorrowfully resigned the
privilege of writing to her friend entirely. The latter wondered at
this strange silence, thought Carrie must have left the city, and in
the end gave her up as lost. So she was thoroughly surprised to
encounter her in Fourteenth Street, where she had gone shopping.
Carrie was there for the same purpose.
  "Why, Mrs. Wheeler," said Mrs. Vance, looking Carrie over in a
glance, "where have you been? Why haven't you been to see me? I've
been wondering all this time what had become of you. Really, I-"
  "I'm so glad to see you," said Carrie, pleased and yet nonplussed.
Of all times, this was the worst to encounter Mrs. Vance. "Why, I'm
living down town here. I've been intending to come and see you.
Where are you living now?"
  "In Fifty-eighth Street," said Mrs. Vance, "just off Seventh Avenue-
218. Why don't you come and see me?"
  "I will," said Carrie. "Really, I've been wanting to come. I know
I ought to. It's a shame. But you know-"
  "What's your number?" said Mrs. Vance.
  "Thirteenth Street," said Carrie, reluctantly. "112 West."
  "Oh," said Mrs. Vance, "that's right near here, isn't it?"
  "Yes," said Carrie. "You must come down and see me some time."
  "Well, you're a fine one," said Mrs. Vance, laughing, the while
noting that Carrie's appearance had modified somewhat. "The address,
too," she added to herself. "They must be hard up."
  Still she liked Carrie well enough to take her in tow.
  "Come with me in here a minute," she exclaimed, turning into a
store.
  When Carrie returned home, there was Hurstwood, reading as usual. He
seemed to take his condition with the utmost nonchalance. His beard
was at least four days old.
  "Oh," thought Carrie, "if she were to come here and see him?"
  She shook her head in absolute misery. It looked as if her situation
was becoming unbearable.
  Driven to desperation, she asked at dinner:
  "Did you ever hear any more from that wholesale house?"
  "No," he said. "They don't want an inexperienced man."
  Carrie dropped the subject, feeling unable to say more.
  "I met Mrs. Vance this afternoon," she said, after a time.
  "Did, eh?" he answered.
  "They're back in New York now," Carrie went on. "She did look so
nice."
  "Well, she can afford it as long as he puts up for it," returned
Hurstwood. "He's got a soft job."
  Hurstwood was looking into the paper. He could not see the look of
infinite weariness and discontent Carrie gave him.
  "She said she thought she'd call here some day."
  "She's been long getting round to it, hasn't she?" said Hurstwood,
with a kind of sarcasm.
  The woman didn't appeal to him from her spending side.
  "Oh, I don't know," said Carrie, angered by the man's attitude.
"Perhaps I didn't want her to come."
  "She's too gay," said Hurstwood, significantly. "No one can keep
up with her pace unless they've got a lot of money."
  "Mr. Vance doesn't seem to find it very hard."
  "He may not now," answered Hurstwood, doggedly, well understanding
the inference; "but his life isn't done yet. You can't tell what'll
happen. He may get down like anybody else."
  There was something quite knavish in the man's attitude. His eye
seemed to be cocked with a twinkle upon the fortunate, expecting their
defeat. His own state seemed a thing apart- not considered.
  This thing was the remains of his old-time cocksureness and
independence. Sitting in his flat, and reading of the doings of
other people, sometimes this independent, undefeated mood came upon
him. Forgetting the weariness of the streets and the degradation of
search, he would sometimes prick up his ears. It was as if he said:
  "I can do something. I'm not down yet. There's a lot of things
coming to me if I want to go after them."
  It was in this mood that he would occasionally dress up, go for a
shave, and, putting on his gloves, sally forth quite actively. Not
with any definite aim. It was more a barometric condition. He felt
just right for being outside and doing something.
  On such occasions, his money went also. He knew of several poker
rooms down town. A few acquaintances he had in downtown resorts and
about the City Hall. It was a change to see them and exchange a few
friendly commonplaces.
  He had once been accustomed to hold a pretty fair hand at poker.
Many a friendly game had netted him a hundred dollars or more at the
time when that sum was merely sauce to the dish of the game- not the
all in all. Now, he thought of playing.
  "I might win a couple of hundred. I'm not out of practice."
  It is but fair to say that this thought had occurred to him
several times before he acted upon it.
  The poker room which he first invaded was over a saloon in West
Street, near one of the ferries. He had been there before. Several
games were going. These he watched for a time and noticed that the
pots were quite large for the ante involved.
  "Deal me a hand," he said at the beginning of a new shuffle. He
pulled up a chair and studied his cards. Those playing made that quiet
study of him which is so unapparent, and yet invariably so searching.
  Poor fortune was with him at first. He received a mixed collection
without progression or pairs. The pot was opened.
  "I pass," he said.
  On the strength of this, he was content to lose his ante. The
deals did fairly by him in the long run, causing him to come away with
a few dollars to the good.
  The next afternoon he was back again, seeking amusement and
profit. This time he followed up three of a kind to his doom. There
was a better hand across the table, held by a pugnacious Irish
youth, who was a political hanger-on of the Tammany district in
which they were located. Hurstwood was surprised at the persistence of
this individual, whose bets came with a sang-froid which, if a
bluff, was excellent art. Hurstwood began to doubt, but kept, or
thought to keep, at least, the cool demeanour with which, in olden
times, he deceived those psychic students of the gaming table, who
seem to read thoughts and moods, rather than exterior evidences,
however subtle. He could not down the cowardly thought that this man
had something better and would stay to the end, drawing his last
dollar into the pot, should he choose to go so far. Still, he hoped to
win much- his hand was excellent. Why not raise it five more?
  "I raise you three," said the youth.
  "Make it five," said Hurstwood, pushing out his chips.
  "Come again," said the youth, pushing out a small pile of reds.
  "Let me have some more chips," said Hurstwood to the keeper in
charge, taking out a bill.
  A cynical grin lit up the face of his youthful opponent. When the
chips were laid out, Hurstwood met the raise.
  "Five again," said the youth.
  Hurstwood's brow was wet. He was deep in now- very deep for him.
Sixty dollars of his good money was up. He was ordinarily no coward,
but the thought of losing so much weakened him. Finally he gave way.
He would not trust to this fine hand any longer.
  "I call," he said.
  "A full house!" said the youth, spreading out his cards.
  Hurstwood's hand dropped.
  "I thought I had you," he said, weakly.
  The youth raked in his chips, and Hurstwood came away, not without
first stopping to count his remaining cash on the stair.
  "Three hundred and forty dollars," he said.
  With this loss and ordinary expenses, so much had already gone.
  Back in the flat, he decided he would play no more.
  Remembering Mrs. Vance's promise to call, Carrie made one other mild
protest. It was concerning Hurstwood's appearance. This very day,
coming home, he changed his clothes to the old togs he sat around in.
  "What makes you always put on those old clothes?" asked Carrie.
  "What's the use wearing my good ones around here?" he asked.
  "Well, I should think you'd feel better." Then she added: "Some
one might call."
  "Who?" he said.
  "Well, Mrs. Vance," said Carrie.
  "She needn't see me," he answered, sullenly.
  This lack of pride and interest made Carrie almost hate him.
  "Oh," she thought, "there he sits. 'She needn't see me.' I should
think he would be ashamed of himself."
  The real bitterness of this thing was added when Mrs. Vance did
call. It was on one of her shopping rounds. Making her way up the
commonplace hall, she knocked at Carrie's door. To her subsequent
and agonising distress, Carrie was out. Hurstwood opened the door,
half-thinking that the knock was Carrie's. For once, he was taken
honestly aback. The lost voice of youth and pride spoke in him.
  "Why," he said, actually stammering, "how do you do?"
  "How do you do?" said Mrs. Vance, who could scarcely believe her
eyes. His great confusion she instantly perceived. He did not know
whether to invite her in or not.
  "Is your wife at home?" she inquired.
  "No," he said, "Carrie's out; but won't you step in? She'll be
back shortly."
  "No-o," said Mrs. Vance, realising the change of it all. "I'm really
very much in a hurry. I thought I'd just run up and look in, but I
couldn't stay. Just tell your wife she must come and see me."
  "I will," said Hurstwood, standing back, and feeling intense
relief at her going. He was so ashamed that he folded his hands
weakly, as he sat in the chair afterwards, and thought.
  Carrie, coming in from another direction, thought she saw Mrs. Vance
going away. She strained her eyes, but could not make sure.
  "Was anybody here just now?" she asked of Hurstwood.
  "Yes," he said guiltily; "Mrs. Vance."
  "Did she see you?" she asked, expressing her full despair.
  This cut Hurstwood like a whip, and made him sullen.
  "If she had eyes, she did. I opened the door."
  "Oh," said Carrie, closing one hand tightly out of sheer
nervousness. "What did she have to say?"
  "Nothing," he answered. "She couldn't stay."
  "And you looking like that!" said Carrie, throwing aside a long
reserve.
  "What of it?" he said, angering. "I didn't know she was coming,
did I?"
  "You knew she might," said Carrie. "I told you she said she was
coming. I've asked you a dozen times to wear your other clothes. Oh, I
think this is just terrible."
  "Oh, let up," he answered. "What difference does it make? You
couldn't associate with her, anyway. They've got too much money."
  "Who said I wanted to?" said Carrie, fiercely.
  "Well, you act like it, rowing around over my looks. You'd think I'd
committed-"
  Carrie interrupted:
  "It's true," she said. "I couldn't if I wanted to, but whose fault
is it? You're very free to sit and talk about who I could associate
with. Why don't you get out and look for work?"
  This was a thunderbolt in camp.
  "What's it to you?" he said, rising, almost fiercely. "I pay the
rent, don't I? I furnish the-"
  "Yes, you pay the rent," said Carrie. "You talk as if there was
nothing else in the world but a flat to sit around in. You haven't
done a thing for three months except sit around and interfere here.
I'd like to know what you married me for?"
  "I didn't marry you," he said, in a snarling tone.
  "I'd like to know what you did, then, in Montreal?" she answered.
  "Well, I didn't marry you," he answered. "You can get that out of
your head. You talk as though you didn't know."
  Carrie looked at him a moment, her eyes distending. She had believed
it was all legal and binding enough.
  "What did you lie to me for, then?" she asked, fiercely. "What did
you force me to run away with you for?"
  Her voice became almost a sob.
  "Force!" he said, with curled lip. "A lot of forcing I did."
  "Oh!" said Carrie, breaking under the strain, and turning. "Oh, oh!"
and she hurried into the front room.
  Hurstwood was now hot and waked up. It was a great shaking up for
him, both mental and moral. He wiped his brow as he looked around, and
then went for his clothes and dressed. Not a sound came from Carrie;
she ceased sobbing when she heard him dressing. She thought, at first,
with the faintest alarm, of being left without money- not of losing
him, though he might be going away permanently. She heard him open the
top of the wardrobe and take out his hat. Then the dining-room door
closed, and she knew he had gone.
  After a few moments of silence, she stood up, dry-eyed, and looked
out the window. Hurstwood was just strolling up the street, from the
flat, toward Sixth Avenue.
  The latter made progress along Thirteenth and across Fourteenth
Street to Union Square.
  "Look for work!" he said to himself. "Look for work! She tells me to
get out and look for work."
  He tried to shield himself from his own mental accusation, which
told him that she was right.
  "What a cursed thing that Mrs. Vance's call was, anyhow," he
thought. "Stood right there, and looked me over. I know what she was
thinking."
  He remembered the few times he had seen her in Seventy-eighth
Street. She was always a swell-looker, and he had tried to put on
the air of being worthy of such as she, in front of her. Now, to think
she had caught him looking this way. He wrinkled his forehead in his
distress.
  "The devil!" he said a dozen times in an hour.
  It was a quarter after four when he left the house. Carrie was in
tears. There would be no dinner that night.
  "What the deuce," he said, swaggering mentally to hide his own shame
from himself. "I'm not so bad. I'm not down yet."
  He looked around the square, and seeing the several large hotels,
decided to go to one for dinner. He would get his papers and make
himself comfortable there.
  He ascended into the fine parlour of the Morton House, then one of
the best New York hotels, and, finding a cushioned seat, read. It
did not trouble him much that his decreasing sum of money did not
allow of such extravagance. Like the morphine fiend, he was becoming
addicted to his ease. Anything to relieve his mental distress, to
satisfy his craving for comfort. He must do it. No thoughts for the
morrow- he could not stand to think of it any more than he could of
any other calamity. Like the certainty of death, he tried to shut
the certainty of soon being without a dollar completely out of his
mind, and he came very near doing it.
  Well-dressed guests moving to and fro over the thick carpets carried
him back to the old days. A young lady, a guest of the house,
playing a piano in an alcove pleased him. He sat there reading.
  His dinner cost him $1.50. By eight o'clock he was through, and
then, seeing guests leaving and the crowd of pleasure-seekers
thickening outside, wondered where he should go. Not home. Carrie
would be up. No, he would not go back there this evening. He would
stay out and knock around as a man who was independent- not broke-
well might. He bought a cigar, and went outside on the corner where
other individuals were lounging- brokers, racing people, thespians-
his own flesh and blood. As he stood there, he thought of the old
evenings in Chicago, and how he used to dispose of them. Many's the
game he had had. This took him to poker.
  "I didn't do that thing right the other day," he thought,
referring to his loss of sixty dollars. "I shouldn't have weakened.
I could have bluffed that fellow down. I wasn't in form, that's what
ailed me."
  Then he studied the possibilities of the game as it had been played,
and began to figure how he might have won, in several instances, by
bluffing a little harder.
  "I'm old enough to play poker and do something with it. I'll try
my hand to-night."
  Visions of a big stake floated before him. Supposing he did win a
couple of hundred, wouldn't he be in it? Lots of sports he knew made
their living at this game, and a good living, too.
  "They always had as much as I had," he thought.
  So off he went to a poker room in the neighbourhood, feeling much as
he had in the old days. In this period of self-forgetfulness,
aroused first by the shock of argument and perfected by a dinner in
the hotel, with cocktails and cigars, he was as nearly like the old
Hurstwood as he would ever be again. It was not the old Hurstwood-
only a man arguing with a divided conscience and lured by a phantom.
  This poker room was much like the other one, only it was a back room
in a better drinking resort. Hurstwood watched a while, and then,
seeing an interesting game, joined in. As before, it went easy for a
while, he winning a few times and cheering up, losing a few pots and
growing more interested and determined on that account. At last the
fascinating game took a strong hold on him. He enjoyed its risks and
ventured, on a trifling hand, to bluff the company and secure a fair
stake. To his self-satisfaction intense and strong, he did it.
  In the height of this feeling he began to think his luck was with
him. No one else had done so well. Now came another moderate hand, and
again he tried to open the jack-pot on it. There were others there who
were almost reading his heart, so close was their observation.
  "I have three of a kind," said one of the players to himself.
"I'll just stay with the fellow to the finish."
  The result was that bidding began.
  "I raise you ten."
  "Good."
  "Ten more."
  "Good."
  "Ten again."
  "Right you are."
  It got to where Hurstwood had seventy-five dollars up. The other man
really became serious. Perhaps this individual (Hurstwood) really
did have a stiff hand.
  "I call," he said.
  Hurstwood showed his hand. He was done. The bitter fact that he
had lost seventy-five dollars made him desperate.
  "Let's have another pot," he said, grimly.
  "All right," said the man.
  Some of the other players quit, but observant loungers took their
places. Time passed, and it came to twelve o'clock. Hurstwood held on,
neither winning nor losing much. Then he grew weary, and on a last
hand lost twenty more. He was sick at heart.
  At a quarter after one in the morning he came out of the place.
The chill, bare streets seemed a mockery of his state. He walked
slowly west, little thinking of his row with Carrie. He ascended the
stairs and went into his room as if there had been no trouble. It
was his loss that occupied his mind. Sitting down on the bedside he
counted his money. There was now but a hundred and ninety dollars
and some change. He put it up and began to undress.
  "I wonder what's getting into me, anyhow?" he said.
  In the morning Carrie scarcely spoke, and he felt as if he must go
out again. He had treated her badly, but he could not afford to make
up. Now desperation seized him, and for a day or two, going out
thus, he lived like a gentleman- or what he conceived to be a
gentleman- which took money. For his escapades he was soon poorer in
mind and body, to say nothing of his purse, which had lost thirty by
the process. Then he came down to cold, bitter sense again.
  "The rent man comes to-day," said Carrie, greeting him thus
indifferently three mornings later.
  "He does?"
  "Yes; this is the second," answered Carrie.
  Hurstwood frowned. Then in despair he got out his purse.
  "It seems an awful lot to pay for rent," he said.
  He was nearing his last hundred dollars.
                      Chapter XXXVII.
         THE SPIRIT AWAKENS: NEW SEARCH FOR THE GATE

  It would be useless to explain how in due time the last fifty
dollars was in sight. The seven hundred, by his process of handling,
had only carried them into June. Before the final hundred mark was
reached he began to indicate that a calamity was approaching.
  "I don't know," he said one day, taking a trivial expenditure for
meat as a text, "it seems to take an awful lot for us to live."
  "It doesn't seem to me," said Carrie, "that we spend very much."
  "My money is nearly gone," he said, "and I hardly know where it's
gone to."
  "All that seven hundred dollars?" asked Carrie.
  "All but a hundred."
  He looked so disconsolate that it scared her. She began to see
that she herself had been drifting. She had felt it all the time.
  "Well, George," she exclaimed, "why don't you get out and look for
something? You could find something."
  "I have looked," he said. "You can't make people give you a place."
  She gazed weakly at him and said: "Well, what do you think you
will do? A hundred dollars won't last long."
  "I don't know," he said. "I can't do any more than look."
  Carrie became frightened over this announcement. She thought
desperately upon the subject. Frequently she had considered the
stage as a door through which she might enter that gilded state
which she had so much craved. Now, as in Chicago, it came as a last
resource in distress. Something must be done if he did not get work
soon. Perhaps she would have to go out and battle again alone.
  She began to wonder how one would go about getting a place. Her
experience in Chicago proved that she had not tried the right way.
There must be people who would listen to and try you- men who would
give you an opportunity.
  They were talking at the breakfast table, a morning or two later,
when she brought up the dramatic subject by saying that she saw that
Sarah Bernhardt was coming to this country. Hurstwood had seen it,
too.
  "How do people get on the stage, George?" she finally asked,
innocently.
  "I don't know," he said. "There must be dramatic agents."
  Carrie was sipping coffee, and did not look up.
  "Regular people who get you a place?"
  "Yes, I think so," he answered.
  Suddenly the air with which she asked attracted his attention.
  "You're not still thinking about being an actress, are you?" he
asked.
  "No," she answered, "I was just wondering."
  Without being clear, there was something in the thought which he
objected to. He did not believe any more, after three years of
observation, that Carrie would ever do anything great in that line.
She seemed too simple, too yielding. His idea of the art was that it
involved something more pompous. If she tried to get on the stage
she would fall into the hands of some cheap manager and become like
the rest of them. He had a good idea of what he meant by them.
Carrie was pretty. She would get along all right, but where would he
be?
  "I'd get that idea out of my head, if I were you. It's a lot more
difficult than you think."
  Carrie felt this to contain, in some way, an aspersion upon her
ability.
  "You said I did real well in Chicago," she rejoined.
  "You did," he answered, seeing that he was arousing opposition, "but
Chicago isn't New York, by a big jump."
  Carrie did not answer this at all. It hurt her.
  "The stage," he went on, "is all right if you can be one of the
big guns, but there's nothing to the rest of it. It takes a long while
to get up."
  "Oh, I don't know," said Carrie, slightly aroused.
  In a flash, he thought he foresaw the result of this thing. Now,
when the worst of his situation was approaching, she would get on
the stage in some cheap way and forsake him. Strangely, he had not
conceived well of her mental ability. That was because he did not
understand the nature of emotional greatness. He had never learned
that a person might be emotionally- instead of intellectually-
great. Avery Hall was too far away for him to look back and sharply
remember. He had lived with this woman too long.
  "Well, I do," he answered. "If I were you I wouldn't think of it.
It's not much of a profession for a woman."
  "It's better than going hungry," said Carrie. "If you don't want
me to do that, why don't you get work yourself?"
  There was no answer ready for this. He had got used to the
suggestion.
  "Oh, let up," he answered.
  The result of this was that she secretly resolved to try. It
didn't matter about him. She was not going to be dragged into
poverty and something worse to suit him. She could act. She could
get something and then work up. What would he say then? She pictured
herself already appearing in some fine performance on Broadway; of
going every evening to her dressing-room and making up. Then she would
come out at eleven o'clock and see the carriages ranged about, waiting
for the people. It did not matter whether she was the star or not.
If she were only once in, getting a decent salary, wearing the kind of
clothes she liked, having the money to do with, going here and there
as she pleased, how delightful it would all be. Her mind ran over this
picture all the day long. Hurstwood's dreary state made its beauty
become more and more vivid.
  Curiously this idea soon took hold of Hurstwood. His vanishing sum
suggested that he would need sustenance. Why could not Carrie assist
him a little until he could get something?
  He came in one day with something of this idea in his mind.
  "I met John B. Drake to-day," he said. "He's going to open a hotel
here in the fall. He says that he can make a place for me then."
  "Who is he?" asked Carrie.
  "He's the man that runs the Grand Pacific in Chicago."
  "Oh," said Carrie.
  "I'd get about fourteen hundred a year out of that."
  "That would be good, wouldn't it?" she said, sympathetically.
  "If I can only get over this summer," he added, "I think I'll be all
right. I'm hearing from some of my friends again."
  Carrie swallowed this story in all its pristine beauty. She
sincerely wished he could get through the summer. He looked so
hopeless.
  "How much money have you left?"
  "Only fifty dollars."
  "Oh, mercy," she exclaimed, "what will we do? It's only twenty
days until the rent will be due again."
  Hurstwood rested his head on his hands and looked blankly at the
floor.
  "Maybe you could get something in the stage line?" he blandly
suggested.
  "Maybe I could," said Carrie, glad that some one approved of the
idea.
  "I'll lay my hand to whatever I can get," he said, now that he saw
her brighten up. "I can get something."
  She cleaned up the things one morning after he had gone, dressed
as neatly as her wardrobe permitted, and set out for Broadway. She did
not know that thoroughfare very well. To her it was a wonderful
conglomeration of everything great and mighty. The theatres were
there- these agencies must be somewhere about.
  She decided to stop in at the Madison Square Theatre and ask how
to find the theatrical agents. This seemed the sensible way.
Accordingly, when she reached that theatre she applied to the clerk at
the box office.
  "Eh?" he said, looking out. "Dramatic agents? I don't know. You'll
find them in the 'Clipper,' though. They all advertise in that."
  "Is that a paper?" said Carrie.
  "Yes," said the clerk, marvelling at such ignorance of a common
fact. "You can get it at the news-stands," he added politely, seeing
how pretty the inquirer was.
  Carrie proceeded to get the "Clipper," and tried to find the
agents by looking over it as she stood beside the stand. This could
not be done so easily. Thirteenth Street was a number of blocks off,
but she went back, carrying the precious paper and regretting the
waste of time.
  Hurstwood was already there, sitting in his place.
  "Where were you?" he asked.
  "I've been trying to find some dramatic agents."
  He felt a little diffident about asking concerning her success.
The paper she began to scan attracted his attention.
  "What have you got there?" he asked.
  "The 'Clipper.' The man said I'd find their addresses in here."
  "Have you been all the way over to Broadway to find that out? I
could have told you."
  "Why didn't you?" she asked, without looking up.
  "You never asked me," he returned.
  She went hunting aimlessly through the crowded columns. Her mind was
distracted by this man's indifference. The difficulty of the situation
she was facing was only added to by all he did. Self-commiseration
brewed in her heart. Tears trembled along her eyelids but did not
fall. Hurstwood noticed something.
  "Let me look."
  To recover herself she went into the front room while he searched.
Presently she returned. He had a pencil, and was writing upon an
envelope.
  "Here're three," he said.
  Carrie took it and found that one was Mrs. Bermudez, another
Marcus Jenks, a third Percy Weil. She paused only a moment, and then
moved toward the door.
  "I might as well go right away," she said, without looking back.
  Hurstwood saw her depart with some faint stirrings of shame, which
were the expression of a manhood rapidly becoming stultified. He sat a
while, and then it became too much. He got up and put on his hat.
  "I guess I'll go out," he said to himself, and went, strolling
nowhere in particular, but feeling somehow that he must go.
  Carrie's first call was upon Mrs. Bermudez, whose address was
quite the nearest. It was an old-fashioned residence turned into
offices. Mrs. Bermudez's offices consisted of what formerly had been a
back chamber and a hall bedroom, marked "Private."
  As Carrie entered she noticed several persons lounging about- men,
who said nothing and did nothing.
  While she was waiting to be noticed, the door of the hall bedroom
opened and from it issued two very mannish-looking women, very tightly
dressed, and wearing white collars and cuffs. After them came a portly
lady of about forty-five, light-haired, sharp-eyed, and evidently
good-natured. At least she was smiling.
  "Now, don't forget about that," said one of the mannish women.
  "I won't," said the portly woman. "Let's see," she added, "where are
you the first week in February?"
  "Pittsburg," said the woman.
  "I'll write you there."
  "All right," said the other, and the two passed out.
  Instantly the portly lady's face became exceedingly sober and
shrewd. She turned about and fixed on Carrie a very searching eye.
  "Well," she said, "young woman, what can I do for you?"
  "Are you Mrs. Bermudez?"
  "Yes."
  "Well," said Carrie, hesitating how to begin, "do you get places for
persons upon the stage?"
  "Yes."
  "Could you get me one?"
  "Have you ever had any experience?"
  "A very little," said Carrie.
  "Whom did you play with?"
  "Oh, with no one," said Carrie. "It was just a show gotten-"
  "Oh, I see," said the woman, interrupting her. "No, I don't know
of anything now."
  Carrie's countenance fell.
  "You want to get some New York experience," concluded the affable
Mrs. Bermudez. "We'll take your name, though."
  Carrie stood looking while the lady retired to her office.
  "What is your address?" inquired a young lady behind the counter,
taking up the curtailed conversation.
  "Mrs. George Wheeler," said Carrie, moving over to where she was
writing. The woman wrote her address in full and then allowed her to
depart at her leisure.
  She encountered a very similar experience in the office of Mr.
Jenks, only he varied it by saying at the close: "If you could play at
some local house, or had a programme with your name on it, I might
do something."
  In the third place the individual asked:
  "What sort of work do you want to do?"
  "What do you mean?" said Carrie.
  "Well, do you want to get in a comedy or on the vaudeville stage
or in the chorus?"
  "Oh, I'd like to get a part in a play," said Carrie.
  "Well," said the man, "it'll cost you something to do that."
  "How much?" said Carrie, who, ridiculous as it may seem, had not
thought of this before.
  "Well, that's for you to say," he answered shrewdly.
  Carrie looked at him curiously. She hardly knew how to continue
the inquiry.
  "Could you get me a part if I paid?"
  "If we didn't you'd get your money back."
  "Oh," she said.
  The agent saw he was dealing with an inexperienced soul, and
continued accordingly.
  "You'd want to deposit fifty dollars, anyway. No agent would trouble
about you for less than that."
  Carrie saw a light.
  "Thank you," she said. "I'll think about it."
  She started to go, and then bethought herself.
  "How soon would I get a place?" she asked.
  "Well, that's hard to say," said the man. "You might get one in a
week, or it might be a month. You'd get the first thing that we
thought you could do."
  "I see," said Carrie, and then, half-smiling to be agreeable, she
walked out.
  The agent studied a moment, and then said to himself:
  "It's funny how anxious these women are to get on the stage."
  Carrie found ample food for reflection in the fifty-dollar
proposition. "Maybe they'd take my money and not give me anything,"
she thought. She had some jewelry- a diamond ring and pin and
several other pieces. She could get fifty dollars for those if she
went to a pawnbroker.
  Hurstwood was home before her. He had not thought she would be so
long seeking.
  "Well?" he said, not venturing to ask what news.
  "I didn't find out anything to-day," said Carrie, taking off her
gloves. "They all want money to get you a place."
  "How much?" asked Hurstwood.
  "Fifty dollars."
  "They don't want anything, do they?"
  "Oh, they're like everybody else. You can't tell whether they'd ever
get you anything after you did pay them."
  "Well, I wouldn't put up fifty on that basis," said Hurstwood, as if
he were deciding, money in hand.
  "I don't know," said Carrie. "I think I'll try some of the
managers."
  Hurstwood heard this, dead to the horror of it. He rocked a little
to and fro, and chewed at his finger. It seemed all very natural in
such extreme states. He would do better later on.
                     Chapter XXXVIII.
       IN ELF LAND DISPORTING: THE GRIM WORLD WITHOUT

  When Carrie renewed her search, as she did the next day, going to
the Casino, she found that in the opera chorus, as in other fields,
employment is difficult to secure. Girls who can stand in a line and
look pretty are as numerous as labourers who can swing a pick. She
found there was no discrimination between one and the other of
applicants, save as regards a conventional standard of prettiness
and form. Their own opinion or knowledge of their ability went for
nothing.
  "Where shall I find Mr. Gray?" she asked of a sulky doorman at the
stage entrance of the Casino.
  "You can't see him now; he's busy."
  "Do you know when I can see him?"
  "Got an appointment with him?"
  "No."
  "Well, you'll have to call at his office."
  "Oh, dear!" exclaimed Carrie. "Where is his office?"
  He gave her the number.
  She knew there was no need of calling there now. He would not be in.
Nothing remained but to employ the intermediate hours in search.
  The dismal story of ventures in other places is quickly told. Mr.
Daly saw no one save by appointment. Carrie waited an hour in a
dingy office, quite in spite of obstacles, to learn this fact of the
placid, indifferent Mr. Dorney.
  "You will have to write and ask him to see you."
  So she went away.
  At the Empire Theatre she found a hive of peculiarly listless and
indifferent individuals. Everything ornately upholstered, everything
carefully finished, everything remarkably reserved.
  At the Lyceum she entered one of those secluded, under-stairway
closets, berugged and bepanneled, which causes one to feel the
greatness of all positions of authority. Here was reserve itself
done into a box-office clerk, a doorman, and an assistant, glorying in
their fine positions.
  "Ah, be very humble now- very humble indeed. Tell us what it is
you require. Tell it quickly, nervously, and without a vestige of
self-respect. If no trouble to us in any way, we may see what we can
do."
  This was the atmosphere of the Lyceum- the attitude, for that
matter, of every managerial office in the city. These little
proprietors of businesses are lords indeed on their own ground.
  Carrie came away wearily, somewhat more abashed for her pains.
  Hurstwood heard the details of the weary and unavailing search
that evening.
  "I didn't get to see any one," said Carrie. "I just walked, and
walked, and waited around."
  Hurstwood only looked at her.
  "I suppose you have to have some friends before you can get in," she
added, disconsolately.
  Hurstwood saw the difficulty of this thing, and yet it did not
seem so terrible. Carrie was tired and dispirited, but now she could
rest. Viewing the world from his rocking-chair, its bitterness did not
seem to approach so rapidly. To-morrow was another day.
  To-morrow came, and the next, and the next.
  Carrie saw the manager at the Casino once.
  "Come around," he said, "the first of next week. I may make some
changes then."
  He was a large and corpulent individual, surfeited with good clothes
and good eating, who judged women as another would horseflesh.
Carrie was pretty and graceful. She might be put in even if she did
not have any experience. One of the proprietors had suggested that the
chorus was a little weak on looks.
  The first of next week was some days off yet. The first of the month
was drawing near. Carrie began to worry as she had never worried
before.
  "Do you really look for anything when you go out?" she asked
Hurstwood one morning as a climax to some painful thoughts of her own.
  "Of course I do," he said pettishly, troubling only a little over
the disgrace of the insinuation.
  "I'd take anything," she said, "for the present. It will soon be the
first of the month again."
  She looked the picture of despair.
  Hurstwood quit reading his paper and changed his clothes.
  "He would look for something," he thought. "He would go and see if
some brewery couldn't get him in somewhere. Yes, he would take a
position as bartender, if he could get it."
  It was the same sort of pilgrimage he had made before. One or two
slight rebuffs, and the bravado disappeared.
  "No use," he thought. "I might as well go on back home."
  Now that his money was so low, he began to observe his clothes and
feel that even his best ones were beginning to look commonplace.
This was a bitter thought.
  Carrie came in after he did.
  "I went to see some of the variety managers," she said, aimlessly.
"You have to have an act. They don't want anybody that hasn't."
  "I saw some of the brewery people to-day," said Hurstwood. "One
man told me he'd try to make a place for me in two or three weeks."
  In the face of so much distress on Carrie's part, he had to make
some showing, and it was thus he did so. It was lassitude's apology to
energy.
  Monday Carrie went again to the Casino.
  "Did I tell you to come around to-day?" said the manager, looking
her over as she stood before him.
  "You said the first of the week," said Carrie, greatly abashed.
  "Ever had any experience?" he asked again, almost severely.
  Carrie owned to ignorance.
  He looked her over again as he stirred among some papers. He was
secretly pleased with this pretty, disturbed-looking young woman.
"Come around to the theatre to-morrow morning."
  Carrie's heart bounded to her throat.
  "I will," she said with difficulty. She could see he wanted her, and
turned to go.
  "Would he really put her to work? Oh, blessed fortune, could it be?"
  Already the hard rumble of the city through the open windows
became pleasant.
  A sharp voice answered her mental interrogation, driving away all
immediate fears on that score.
  "Be sure you're there promptly," the manager said roughly. "You'll
be dropped if you're not."
  Carrie hastened away. She did not quarrel now with Hurstwood's
idleness. She had a place- she had a place! This sang in her ears.
  In her delight she was almost anxious to tell Hurstwood. But, as she
walked homeward, and her survey of the facts of the case became
larger, she began to think of the anomaly of her finding work in
several weeks and his lounging in idleness for a number of months.
  "Why don't he get something?" she openly said to herself. "If I
can he surely ought to. It wasn't very hard for me."
  She forgot her youth and her beauty. The handicap of age she did
not, in her enthusiasm, perceive.
  Thus, ever, the voice of success.
  Still, she could not keep her secret. She tried to be calm and
indifferent, but it was a palpable sham.
  "Well?" he said, seeing her relieved face.
  "I have a place."
  "You have?" he said, breathing a better breath.
  "Yes."
  "What sort of a place is it?" he asked, feeling in his veins as if
now he might get something good also.
  "In the chorus," she answered.
  "Is it the Casino show you told me about?"
  "Yes," she answered. "I begin rehearsing tomorrow."
  There was more explanation volunteered by Carrie, because she was
happy. At last Hurstwood said:
  "Do you know how much you'll get?"
  "No, I didn't want to ask," said Carrie. "I guess they pay twelve or
fourteen dollars a week."
  "About that, I guess," said Hurstwood.
  There was a good dinner in the flat that evening, owing to the
mere lifting of the terrible strain. Hurstwood went out for a shave,
and returned with a fair-sized sirloin steak.
  "Now, to-morrow," he thought, "I'll look around myself," and with
renewed hope he lifted his eyes from the ground.
  On the morrow Carrie reported promptly and was given a place in
the line. She saw a large, empty, shadowy play-house, still redolent
of the perfumes and blazonry of the night, and notable for its rich,
oriental appearance. The wonder of it awed and delighted her.
Blessed be its wondrous reality. How hard she would try to be worthy
of it. It was above the common mass, above idleness, above want, above
insignificance. People came to it in finery and carriages to see. It
was ever a center of light and mirth. And here she was of it. Oh, if
she could only remain, how happy would be her days!
  "What is your name?" said the manager, who was conducting the drill.
  "Madenda," she replied, instantly mindful of the name Drouet had
selected in Chicago. "Carrie Madenda."
  "Well, now, Miss Madenda," he said, very affably, as Carrie thought,
"you go over there."
  Then he called to a young woman who was already of the company:
  "Miss Clark, you pair with Miss Madenda."
  This young lady stepped forward, so that Carrie saw where to go, and
the rehearsal began.
  Carrie soon found that while this drilling had some slight
resemblance to the rehearsals as conducted at Avery Hall, the attitude
of the manager was much more pronounced. She had marvelled at the
insistence and superior airs of Mr. Millice, but the individual
conducting here had the same insistence, coupled with almost brutal
roughness. As the drilling proceeded, he seemed to wax exceedingly
wroth over trifles, and to increase his lung power in proportion. It
was very evident that he had a great contempt for any assumption of
dignity or innocence on the part of these young women.
  "Clark," he would call- meaning, of course, Miss Clark- "why don't
you catch step there?"
  "By fours, right! Right, I said, right! For heaven's sake, get on to
yourself! Right!" and in saying this he would lift the last sounds
into a vehement roar.
  "Maitland! Maitland!" he called once.
  A nervous, comely-dressed little girl stepped out. Carrie trembled
for her out of the fulness of her own sympathies and fear.
  "Yes, sir," said Miss Maitland.
  "Is there anything the matter with your ears?"
  "No, sir."
  "Do you know what 'column left' means?"
  "Yes, sir."
  "Well, what are you stumbling around the right for? Want to break up
the line?"
  "I was just-"
  "Never mind what you were just. Keep your ears open."
  Carrie pitied, and trembled for her turn.
  Yet another suffered the pain of personal rebuke.
  "Hold on a minute," cried the manager, throwing up his hands, as
if in despair. His demeanour was fierce.
  "Elvers," he shouted, "what have you got in your mouth?"
  "Nothing," said Miss Elvers, while some smiled and stood nervously
by.
  "Well, are you talking?"
  "No, sir."
  "Well, keep your mouth still then. Now, all together again." At last
Carrie's turn came. It was because of her extreme anxiety to do all
that was required that brought on trouble.
  She heard some one called.
  "Mason," said the voice. "Miss Mason."
  She looked around to see who it could be. A girl behind shoved her a
little, but she did not understand.
  "You, you!" said the manager. "Can't you hear?"
  "Oh," said Carrie, collapsing, and blushing fiercely.
  "Isn't your name Mason?" asked the manager.
  "No, sir," said Carrie, "it's Madenda."
  "Well, what's the matter with your feet? Can't you dance?"
  "Yes, sir," said Carrie, who had long since learned this art.
  "Why don't you do it then?" Don't go shuffling along as if you
were dead. I've got to have people with life in them."
  Carrie's cheek burned with a crimson heat. Her lips trembled a
little.
  "Yes, sir," she said.
  It was this constant urging, coupled with irascibility and energy,
for three long hours. Carrie came away worn enough in body, but too
excited in mind to notice it. She meant to go home and practise her
evolutions as prescribed. She would not err in any way, if she could
help it.
  When she reached the flat Hurstwood was not there. For a wonder he
was out looking for work, as she supposed. She took only a mouthful to
eat and then practised on, sustained by visions of freedom from
financial distress- "The sound of glory ringing in her ears."
  When Hurstwood returned he was not so elated as when he went away,
and now she was obliged to drop practice and get dinner. Here was an
early irritation. She would have her work and this. Was she going to
act and keep house?
  "I'll not do it," she said, "after I get started. He can take his
meals out."
  Each day thereafter brought its cares. She found it was not such a
wonderful thing to be in the chorus, and she also learned that her
salary would be twelve dollars a week. After a few days she had her
first sight of those high and mighties- the leading ladies and
gentlemen. She saw that they were privileged and deferred to. She
was nothing- absolutely nothing at all.
  At home was Hurstwood, daily giving her cause for thought. He seemed
to get nothing to do, and yet he made bold to inquire how she was
getting along. The regularity with which he did this smacked of some
one who was waiting to live upon her labour. Now that she had a
visible means of support, this irritated her. He seemed to be
depending upon her little twelve dollars.
  "How are you getting along?" he would blandly inquire.
  "Oh, all right," she would reply.
  "Find it easy?"
  "It will be all right when I get used to it."
  His paper would then engross his thoughts.
  "I got some lard," he would add, as an afterthought. "I thought
maybe you might want to make some biscuit."
  The calm suggestion of the man astonished her a little, especially
in the light of recent developments. Her dawning independence gave her
more courage to observe, and she felt as if she wanted to say
things. Still she could not talk to him as she had to Drouet. There
was something in the man's manner of which she had always stood in
awe. He seemed to have some invisible strength in reserve.
  One day, after her first week's rehearsal, what she expected came
openly to the surface.
  "We'll have to be rather saving," he said, laying down some meat
he had purchased. "You won't get any money for a week or so yet.
  "No," said Carrie, who was stirring a pan at the stove.
  "I've only got the rent and thirteen dollars more," he added.
  "That's it," she said to herself. "I'm to use my money now."
  Instantly she remembered that she had hoped to buy a few things
for herself. She needed clothes. Her hat was not nice.
  "What will twelve dollars do towards keeping up this flat?" she
thought. "I can't do it. Why doesn't he get something to do?"
  The important night of the first real performance came. She did
not suggest to Hurstwood that he come and see. He did not think of
going. It would only be money wasted. She had such a small part.
  The advertisements were already in the papers; the posters upon
the bill-boards. The leading lady and many members were cited.
Carrie was nothing.
  As in Chicago, she was seized with stage fright as the very first
entrance of the ballet approached, but later she recovered. The
apparent and painful insignificance of the part took fear away from
her. She felt that she was so obscure it did not matter.
Fortunately, she did not have to wear tights. A group of twelve were
assigned pretty golden-hued skirts which came only to a line about
an inch above the knee. Carrie happened to be one of the twelve.
  In standing about the stage, marching, and occasionally lifting up
her voice in the general chorus, she had a chance to observe the
audience and to see the inauguration of a great hit. There was
plenty of applause, but she could not help noting how poorly some of
the women of alleged ability did.
  "I could do better than that," Carrie ventured to herself, in
several instances. To do her justice, she was right.
  After it was over she dressed quickly, and as the manager had
scolded some others and passed her, she imagined she must have
proved satisfactory. She wanted to get out quickly, because she knew
but few, and the stars were gossiping. Outside were carriages and some
correct youths in attractive clothing, waiting. Carrie saw that she
was scanned closely. The flutter of an eyelash would have brought
her a companion. That she did not give.
  One experienced youth volunteered, anyhow.
  "Not going home alone, are you?" he said.
  Carrie merely hastened her steps and took the Sixth Avenue car.
Her head was so full of the wonder of it that she had time for nothing
else.
  "Did you hear any more from the brewery?" she asked at the end of
the week, hoping by the question to stir him on to action.
  "No," he answered, "they're not quite ready yet. I think something
will come of that, though."
  She said nothing more then, objecting to giving up her own money,
and yet feeling that such would have to be the case. Hurstwood felt
the crisis, and artfully decided to appeal to Carrie. He had long
since realised how good-natured she was, how much she would stand.
There was some little shame in him at the thought of doing so, but
he justified himself with the thought that he really would get
something. Rent day gave him his opportunity.
  "Well," he said, as he counted it out, "that's about the last of
my money. I'll have to get something pretty soon."
  Carrie looked at him askance, half-suspicious of an appeal.
  "If I could only hold out a little longer I think I could get
something. Drake is sure to open a hotel here in September."
  "Is he?" said Carrie, thinking of the short month that still
remained until that time.
  "Would you mind helping me out until then?" he said appealingly.
"I think I'll be all right after that time."
  "No," said Carrie, feeling sadly handicapped by fate.
  "We can get along if we economise. I'll pay you back all right."
  "Oh, I'll help you," said Carrie, feeling quite hard-hearted at thus
forcing him to humbly appeal, and yet her desire for the benefit of
her earnings wrung a faint protest from her.
  "Why don't you take anything, George, temporarily?" she said.
"What difference does it make? Maybe, after a while, you'll get
something better."
  "I will take anything," he said, relieved, and wincing under
reproof. "I'd just as leave dig on the streets. Nobody knows me here."
  "Oh, you needn't do that," said Carrie, hurt by the pity of it. "But
there must be other things."
  "I'll get something!" he said, assuming determination.
  Then he went back to his paper.
                      Chapter XXXIX.
       OF LIGHTS AND OF SHADOWS: THE PARTING OF WORLDS

  What Hurstwood got as the result of the determination was more
self-assurance that each particular day was not the day. At the same
time, Carrie passed through thirty days of mental distress.
  Her need of clothes- to say nothing of her desire for ornaments-
grew rapidly as the fact developed that for all her work she was not
to have them. The sympathy she felt for Hurstwood, at the time he
asked her to tide him over, vanished with these newer urgings of
decency. He was not always renewing his request, but this love of good
appearance was. It insisted, and Carrie wished to satisfy it, wished
more and more that Hurstwood was not in the way.
  Hurstwood reasoned, when he neared the last ten dollars, that he had
better keep a little pocket change and not become wholly dependent for
car-fare, shaves, and the like; so when this sum was still in his hand
he announced himself as penniless.
  "I'm clear out," he said to Carrie one afternoon. "I paid for some
coal this morning, and that took all but ten or fifteen cents."
  "I've got some money there in my purse."
  Hurstwood went to get it, starting for a can of tomatoes. Carrie
scarcely noticed that this was the beginning of the new order. He took
out fifteen cents and bought the can with it. Thereafter it was
dribs and drabs of this sort, until one morning Carrie suddenly
remembered that she would not be back until close to dinner time.
  "We're all out of flour," she said; "you'd better get some this
afternoon. We haven't any meat, either. How would it do if we had
liver and bacon?"
  "Suits me," said Hurstwood.
  "Better get a half or three-quarters of a pound of that."
  "Half'll be enough," volunteered Hurstwood.
  She opened her purse and laid down a half dollar. He pretended not
to notice it.
  Hurstwood bought the flour- which all grocers sold in 3 1/2 pound
packages- for thirteen cents and paid fifteen cents for a half-pound
of liver and bacon. He left the packages, together with the balance of
thirty-two cents, upon the kitchen table, where Carrie found it. It
did not escape her that the change was accurate. There was something
sad in realising that, after all, all that he wanted of her was
something to eat. She felt as if hard thoughts were unjust. Maybe he
would get something yet. He had no vices.
  That very evening, however, on going into the theatre, one of the
chorus girls passed her all newly arrayed in a pretty mottled tweed
suit, which took Carrie's eye. The young woman wore a fine bunch of
violets and seemed in high spirits. She smiled at Carrie
good-naturedly as she passed, showing pretty, even teeth, and Carrie
smiled back.
  "She can afford to dress well," thought Carrie, "and so could I,
if I could only keep my money. I haven't a decent tie of any kind to
wear."
  She put out her foot and looked at her shoe reflectively.
  "I'll get a pair of shoes Saturday, anyhow; I don't care what
happens."
  One of the sweetest and most sympathetic little chorus girls in
the company made friends with her because in Carrie she found
nothing to frighten her away. She was a gay little Manon, unwitting of
society's fierce conception of morality, but, nevertheless, good to
her neighbour and charitable. Little license was allowed the chorus in
the matter of conversation, but, nevertheless, some was indulged in.
  "It's warm to-night, isn't it?" said this girl, arrayed in pink
fleshings and an imitation golden helmet. She also carried a shining
shield.
  "Yes; it is," said Carrie, pleased that some one should talk to her.
  "I'm almost roasting," said the girl.
  Carrie looked into her pretty face, with its large blue eyes, and
saw little beads of moisture.
  "There's more marching in this opera than ever I did before,"
added the girl.
  "Have you been in others?" asked Carrie, surprised at her
experience.
  "Lots of them," said the girl; "haven't you?"
  "This is my first experience."
  "Oh, is it? I thought I saw you the time they ran 'The Queen's Mate'
here."
  "No," said Carrie, shaking her head; "not me."
  This conversation was interrupted by the blare of the orchestra
and the sputtering of the calcium lights in the wings as the line
was called to form for a new entrance. No further opportunity for
conversation occurred, but the next evening, when they were getting
ready for the stage, this girl appeared anew at her side.
  "They say this show is going on the road next month."
  "Is it?" said Carrie.
  "Yes; do you think you'll go?"
  "I don't know; I guess so, if they'll take me."
  "Oh, they'll take you. I wouldn't go. They won't give you any
more, and it will cost you everything you make to live. I never
leave New York. There are too many shows going on here."
  "Can you always get in another show?"
  "I always have. There's one going on up at the Broadway this
month. I'm going to try and get in that if this one really goes."
  Carrie heard this with aroused intelligence. Evidently it wasn't
so very difficult to get on. Maybe she also could get a place if
this show went away.
  "Do they all pay about the same?" she asked.
  "Yes. Sometimes you get a little more. This show doesn't pay very
much."
  "I get twelve," said Carrie.
  "Do you?" said the girl. "They pay me fifteen, and you do more
work than I do. I wouldn't stand it if I were you. They're just giving
you less because they think you don't know. You ought to be making
fifteen."
  "Well, I'm not," said Carrie.
  "Well, you'll get more at the next place if you want it," went on
the girl, who admired Carrie very much. "You do fine, and the
manager knows it."
  To say the truth, Carrie did unconsciously move about with an air
pleasing and somewhat distinctive. It was due wholly to her natural
manner and total lack of self-consciousness.
  "Do you suppose I could get more up at the Broadway?"
  "Of course you can," answered the girl. "You come with me when I go.
I'll do the talking."
  Carrie heard this, flushing with thankfulness. She liked this little
gaslight soldier. She seemed so experienced and self-reliant in her
tinsel helmet and military accoutrements.
  "My future must be assured if I can always get work this way,"
thought Carrie.
  Still, in the morning, when her household duties would infringe upon
her and Hurstwood sat there, a perfect load to contemplate, her fate
seemed dismal and unrelieved. It did not take so very much to feed
them under Hurstwood's close-measured buying, and there would possibly
be enough for rent, but it left nothing else. Carrie bought the
shoes and some other things, which complicated the rent problem very
seriously. Suddenly, a week from the fatal day, Carrie realised that
they were going to run short.
  "I don't believe," she exclaimed, looking into her purse at
breakfast, "that I'll have enough to pay the rent."
  "How much have you?" inquired Hurstwood.
  "Well, I've got twenty-two dollars, but there's everything to be
paid for this week yet, and if I use all I get Saturday to pay this,
there won't be any left for next week. Do you think your hotel man
will open his hotel this month?"
  "I think so," returned Hurstwood. "He said he would."
  After a while, Hurstwood said:
  "Don't worry about it. Maybe the grocer will wait. He can do that.
We've traded there long enough to make him trust us for a week or
two."
  "Do you think he will?" she asked.
  "I think so."
  On this account, Hurstwood, this very day, looked grocer Oeslogge
clearly in the eye as he ordered a pound of coffee, and said:
  "Do you mind carrying my account until the end of every week?"
  "No, no, Mr. Wheeler," said Mr. Oeslogge. "Dat iss all right."
  Hurstwood, still tactful in distress, added nothing to this. It
seemed an easy thing. He looked out of the door, and then gathered
up his coffee when ready and came away. The game of a desperate man
had begun.
  Rent was paid, and now came the grocer. Hurstwood managed by
paving out of his own ten and collecting from Carrie at the end of the
week. Then he delayed a day next time settling with the grocer, and so
soon had his ten back, with Oeslogge getting his pay on this
Thursday or Friday for last Saturday's bill.
  This entanglement made Carrie anxious for a change of some sort.
Hurstwood did not seem to realise that she had a right to anything. He
schemed to make what she earned cover all expenses, but seemed not
to trouble over adding anything himself.
  "He talks about worrying," thought Carrie. "If he worried enough
he couldn't sit there and wait for me. He'd get something to do. No
man could go seven months without finding something if he tried."
  The sight of him always around in his untidy clothes and gloomy
appearance drove Carrie to seek relief in other places. Twice a week
there were matinees, and then Hurstwood ate a cold snack, which he
prepared himself. Two other days there were rehearsals beginning at
ten in the morning and lasting usually until one. Now, to this
Carrie added a few visits to one or two chorus girls, including the
blue-eyed soldier of the golden helmet. She did it because it was
pleasant and a relief from dulness of the home over which her
husband brooded.
  The blue-eyed soldier's name was Osborne- Lola Osborne. Her room was
in Nineteenth Street near Fourth Avenue, a block now given up wholly
to office buildings. Here she had a comfortable back room, looking
over a collection of back yards in which grew a number of shade
trees pleasant to see.
  "Isn't your home in New York?" she asked of Lola one day.
  "Yes; but I can't get along with my people. They always want me to
do what they want. Do you live here?"
  "Yes," said Carrie.
  "With your family?"
  Carrie was ashamed to say that she was married. She had talked so
much about getting more salary and confessed to so much anxiety
about her future, that now, when the direct question of fact was
waiting, she could not tell this girl.
  "With some relatives," she answered.
  Miss Osborne took it for granted that, like herself, Carrie's time
was her own. She invariably asked her to stay, proposing little
outings and other things of that sort until Carrie began neglecting
her dinner hours. Hurstwood noticed it, but felt in no position to
quarrel with her. Several times she came so late as scarcely to have
an hour in which to patch up a meal and start for the theatre.
  "Do you rehearse in the afternoons?" Hurstwood once asked,
concealing almost completely the cynical protest and regret which
prompted it.
  "No; I was looking around for another place," said Carrie.
  As a matter of fact she was, but only in such a way as furnished the
least straw of an excuse. Miss Osborne and she had gone to the
office of the manager who was to produce the new opera at the Broadway
and returned straight to the former's room, where they had been
since three o'clock.
  Carrie felt this question to be an infringement on her liberty.
She did not take into account how much liberty she was securing.
Only the last step, the newest freedom, must not be questioned.
  Hurstwood saw it all clearly enough. He was shrewd after his kind,
and yet there was enough decency in the man to stop him from making an
effectual protest. In his almost inexplicable apathy he was content to
droop supinely while Carrie drifted out of his life, just as he was
willing supinely to see opportunity pass beyond his control. He
could not help clinging and protesting in a mild, irritating, and
ineffectual way, however- a way that simply widened the breach by slow
degrees.
  A further enlargement of this chasm between them came when the
manager, looking between the wings upon the brightly lighted stage
where the chorus was going through some of its glittering
evolutions, said to the master of the ballet:
  "Who is that fourth girl there on the right- the one coming round at
the end now?"
  "Oh," said the ballet-master, "that's Miss Madenda."
  "She's good looking. Why don't you let her head that line?"
  "I will," said the man.
  "Just do that. She'll look better there than the woman you've got."
  "All right. I will do that," said the master.
  The next evening Carrie was called out, much as if for an error.
  "You lead your company to-night," said the master.
  "Yes, sir," said Carrie.
  "Put snap into it," he added. "We must have snap."
  "Yes, sir," replied Carrie.
  Astonished at this change, she thought that the heretofore leader
must be ill; but when she saw her in the line, with a distinct
expression of something unfavourable in her eye, she began to think
that perhaps it was merit.
  She had a chic way of tossing her head to one side, and holding
her arms as if for action- not listlessly. In front of the line this
showed up even more effectually.
  "That girl knows how to carry herself," said the manager, another
evening. He began to think that he should like to talk with her. If he
hadn't made it a rule to have nothing to do with the members of the
chorus, he would have approached her most unbendingly.
  "Put that girl at the head of the white column," he suggested to the
man in charge of the ballet.
  This white column consisted of some twenty girls, all in
snow-white flannel trimmed with silver and blue. Its leader was most
stunningly arrayed in the same colours, elaborated, however, with
epaulets and a belt of silver, with a short sword dangling at one
side. Carrie was fitted for this costume, and a few days later
appeared, proud of her new laurels. She was especially gratified to
find that her salary was now eighteen instead of twelve.
  Hurstwood heard nothing about this.
  "I'll not give him the rest of my money," said Carrie. "I do enough.
I am going to get me something to wear."
  As a matter of fact, during this second month she had been buying
for herself as recklessly as she dared, regardless of the
consequences. There were impending more complications rent day and
more extension of the credit system in the neighbourhood. Now,
however, she proposed to do better by herself.
  Her first move was to buy a shirt waist, and in studying these she
found how little her money would buy- how much, if she could only
use all. She forgot that if she were alone she would have to pay for a
room and board, and imagined that every cent of her eighteen could
be spent for clothes and things that she liked.
  At last she picked upon something, which not only used up all her
surplus above twelve, but invaded that sum. She knew she was going too
far, but her feminine love of finery prevailed. The next day Hurstwood
said:
  "We owe the grocer five dollars and forty cents this week."
  "Do we?" said Carrie, frowning a little.
  She looked in her purse to leave it.
  "I've only got eight dollars and twenty cents altogether."
  "We owe the milkman sixty cents," added Hurstwood.
  "Yes, and there's the coal man," said Carrie.
  Hurstwood said nothing. He had seen the new things she was buying;
the way she was neglecting household duties; the readiness with
which she was slipping out afternoons and staying. He felt that
something was going to happen. All at once she spoke:
  "I don't know," she said; "I can't do it all. I don't earn enough."
  This was a direct challenge. Hurstwood had to take it up. He tried
to be calm.
  "I don't want you to do it all," he said. "I only want a little help
until I can get something to do."
  "Oh, yes," answered Carrie. "That's always the way. It takes more
than I can earn to pay for things. I don't see what I'm going to do."
  "Well, I've tried to get something," he exclaimed. "What do you want
me to do?"
  "You couldn't have tried so very hard," said Carrie. "I got
something."
  "Well, I did," he said, angered almost to harsh words. "You
needn't throw up your success to me. All I asked was a little help
until I could get something. I'm not down yet. I'll come up all
right."
  He tried to speak steadily, but his voice trembled a little.
  Carrie's anger melted on the instant. She felt ashamed.
  "Well," she said, "here's the money," and emptied it out on the
table. "I haven't got quite enough to pay it all. If they can wait
until Saturday, though, I'll have some more."
  "You keep it," said Hurstwood, sadly. "I only want enough to pay the
grocer."
  She put it back, and proceeded to get dinner early and in good time.
Her little bravado made her feel as if she ought to make amends.
  In a little while their old thoughts returned to both.
  "She's making more than she says," thought Hurstwood. "She says
she's making twelve, but that wouldn't buy all those things. I don't
care. Let her keep her money. I'll get something again one of these
days. Then she can go to the deuce."
  He only said this in his anger, but it prefigured a possible
course of action and attitude well enough.
  "I don't care," thought Carrie. "He ought to be told to get out
and do something. It isn't right that I should support him."
  In these days Carrie was introduced to several youths, friends of
Miss Osborne, who were of the kind most aptly described as gay and
festive. They called once to get Miss Osborne for an afternoon
drive. Carrie was with her at the time.
  "Come and go along," said Lola.
  "No, I can't," said Carrie.
  "Oh, yes, come and go. What have you got to do?"
  "I have to be home by five," said Carrie.
  "What for?"
  "Oh, dinner."
  "They'll take us to dinner," said Lola.
  "Oh, no," said Carrie. "I won't go. I can't."
  "Oh, do come. They're awful nice boys. We'll get you back in time.
We're only going for a drive in Central Park."
  Carrie thought a while, and at last yielded.
  "Now, I must be back by half-past four," she said.
  The information went in one ear of Lola and out the other.
  After Drouet and Hurstwood, there was the least touch of cynicism in
her attitude toward young men- especially of the gay and frivolous
sort. She felt a little older than they. Some of their pretty
compliments seemed silly. Still, she was young in heart and body and
youth appealed to her.
  "Oh, we'll be right back, Miss Madenda," said one of the chaps,
bowing. "You wouldn't think we'd keep you over time, now, would you?"
  "Well, I don't know," said Carrie, smiling.
  They were off for a drive- she, looking about and noticing fine
clothing, the young men voicing those silly pleasantries and weak
quips which pass for humour in coy circles. Carrie saw the great
park parade of carriages, beginning at the Fifty-ninth Street entrance
and winding past the Museum of Art to the exit at One Hundred and
Tenth Street and Seventh Avenue. Her eye was once more taken by the
show of wealth- the elaborate costumes, elegant harnesses, spirited
horses, and, above all, the beauty. Once more the plague of poverty
galled her, but now she forgot in a measure her own troubles so far as
to forget Hurstwood. He waited until four, five, and even six. It
was getting dark when he got up out of his chair.
  "I guess she isn't coming home," he said, grimly.
  "That's the way," he thought. "She's getting a start now. I'm out of
it."
  Carrie had really discovered her neglect, but only at a quarter
after five, and the open carriage was now far up Seventh Avenue,
near the Harlem River.
  "What time is it?" she inquired. "I must be getting back."
  "A quarter after five," said her companion, consulting an elegant,
open-faced watch.
  "Oh, dear me!" exclaimed Carrie. Then she settled back with a
sigh. "There's no use crying over spilt milk," she said. "It's too
late."
  "Of course it is," said the youth, who saw visions of a fine
dinner now, and such invigorating talk as would result in a reunion
after the show. He was greatly taken with Carrie. "We'll drive down to
Delmonico's now and have something there, won't we, Orrin?"
  "To be sure," replied Orrin, gaily.
  Carrie thought of Hurstwood. Never before had she neglected dinner
without an excuse.
  They drove back, and at 6.15 sat down to dine. It was the Sherry
incident over again, the remembrance of which came painfully back to
Carrie. She remembered Mrs. Vance, who had never called again after
Hurstwood's reception, and Ames.
  At this figure her mind halted. It was a strong, clean vision. He
liked better books than she read, better people than she associated
with. His ideals burned in her heart.
  "It's fine to be a good actress," came distinctly back.
  What sort of an actress was she?
  "What are you thinking about, Miss Madenda?" inquired her merry
companion. "Come, now, let's see if I can guess."
  "Oh, no," said Carrie. "Don't try."
  She shook it off and ate. She forgot, in part, and was merry. When
it came to the after-theatre proposition, however, she shook her head.
  "No," she said, "I can't. I have a previous engagement."
  "Oh, now, Miss Madenda," pleaded the youth.
  "No," said Carrie, "I can't. You've been so kind, but you'll have to
excuse me."
  The youth looked exceedingly crestfallen.
  "Cheer up, old man," whispered his companion. "We'll go around,
anyhow. She may change her mind."
                        Chapter XL.
             A PUBLIC DISSENSION: A FINAL APPEAL

  There was no after-theatre lark, however, so far as Carrie was
concerned. She made her way homeward, thinking about her absence.
Hurstwood was asleep, but roused up to look as she passed through to
her own bed.
  "Is that you?" he said.
  "Yes," she answered.
  The next morning at breakfast she felt like apologising.
  "I couldn't get home last evening," she said.
  "Ah, Carrie," he answered, "what's the use saying that? I don't
care. You needn't tell me that, though."
  "I couldn't," said Carrie, her colour rising. Then, seeing that he
looked as if he said "I know," she exclaimed: "Oh, all right. I
don't care."
  From now on, her indifference to the flat was even greater. There
seemed no common ground on which they could talk to one another. She
let herself be asked for expenses. It became so with him that he hated
to do it. He preferred standing off the butcher and baker. He ran up a
grocery bill of sixteen dollars with Oeslogge, laying in a supply of
staple articles, so that they would not have to buy any of those
things for some time to come. Then he changed his grocery. It was
the same with the butcher and several others. Carrie never heard
anything of this directly from him. He asked for such as he could
expect, drifting farther and farther into a situation which could have
but one ending.
  In this fashion, September went by.
  "Isn't Mr. Drake going to open his hotel?" Carrie asked several
times.
  "Yes. He won't do it before October, though, now."
  Carrie became disgusted. "Such a man," she said to herself
frequently. More and more she visited. She put most of her spare money
in clothes, which, after all, was not an astonishing amount. At last
the opera she was with announced its departure within four weeks.
"Last two weeks of the Great Comic Opera success- The-," etc., was
upon all billboards and in the newspapers, before she acted.
  "I'm not going out on the road," said Miss Osborne.
  Carrie went with her to apply to another manager.
  "Ever had any experience?" was one of his questions.
  "I'm with the company at the Casino now."
  "Oh, you are?" he said.
  The end of this was another engagement at twenty per week.
  Carrie was delighted. She began to feel that she had a place in
the world. People recognised ability.
  So changed was her state that the home atmosphere became
intolerable. It was all poverty and trouble there, or seemed to be,
because it was a load to bear. It became a place to keep away from.
Still she slept there, and did a fair amount of work, keeping it in
order. It was a sitting place for Hurstwood. He sat and rocked, rocked
and read, enveloped in the gloom of his own fate. October went by, and
November. It was the dead of winter almost before he knew it, and
there he sat.
  Carrie was doing better, that he knew. Her clothes were improved
now, even fine. He saw her coming and going, sometimes picturing to
himself her rise. Little eating had thinned him somewhat. He had no
appetite. His clothes, too, were a poor man's clothes. Talk about
getting something had become even too threadbare and ridiculous for
him. So he folded his hands and waited- for what, he could not
anticipate.
  At last, however, troubles became too thick. The hounding of
creditors, the indifference of Carrie, the silence of the flat, and
presence of winter, all joined to produce a climax. It was effected by
the arrival of Oeslogge, personally, when Carrie was there.
  "I call about my bill," said Mr. Oeslogge.
  Carrie was only faintly surprised.
  "How much is it?" she asked.
  "Sixteen dollars," he replied.
  "Oh, that much?" said Carrie. "Is this right?" she asked, turning to
Hurstwood.
  "Yes," he said.
  "Well, I never heard anything about it."
  She looked as if she thought he had been contracting some needless
expense.
  "Well, we had it all right," he answered. Then he went to the
door. "I can't pay you anything on that to-day," he said, mildly.
  "Well, when can you?" said the grocer.
  "Not before Saturday, anyhow," said Hurstwood.
  "Huh!" returned the grocer. "This is fine. I must have that. I
need the money."
  Carrie was standing farther back in the room, hearing it all. She
was greatly distressed. It was so bad and commonplace. Hurstwood was
annoyed also.
  "Well," he said, "there's no use talking about it now. If you'll
come in Saturday, I'll pay you something on it."
  The grocery man went away.
  "How are we going to pay it?" asked Carrie, astonished by the
bill. "I can't do it."
  "Well, you don't have to," he said. "He can't get what he can't get.
He'll have to wait."
  "I don't see how we ran up such a bill as that," said Carrie.
  "Well, we ate it," said Hurstwood.
  "It's funny," she replied, still doubting.
  "What's the use of your standing there and talking like that,
now?" he asked. "Do you think I've had it alone? You talk as if I'd
taken something."
  "Well, it's too much, anyhow," said Carrie. "I oughtn't to be made
to pay for it. I've got more than I can pay for now."
  "All right," replied Hurstwood, sitting down in silence. He was sick
of the grind of this thing.
  Carrie went out, and there he sat, determining to do something.
  There had been appearing in the papers about this time rumours and
notices of an approaching strike on the trolley lines in Brooklyn.
There was general dissatisfaction as to the hours of labour required
and the wages paid. As usual- and for some inexplicable reason- the
men chose the winter for the forcing of the hand of their employers
and the settlement of their difficulties.
  Hurstwood had been reading of this thing, and wondering concerning
the huge tie-up which would follow. A day or two before this trouble
with Carrie, it came. On a cold afternoon, when everything was grey
and it threatened to snow, the papers announced that the men had
been called out on all the lines.
  Being so utterly idle, and his mind filled with the numerous
predictions which had been made concerning the scarcity of labour this
winter and the panicky state of the financial market, Hurstwood read
this with interest. He noted the claims of the striking motormen and
conductors, who said that they had been wont to receive two dollars
a day in times past, but that for a year or more "trippers" had been
introduced, which cut down their chance of livelihood one-half, and
increased their hours of servitude from ten to twelve, and even
fourteen. These "trippers" were men put on during the busy and rush
hours, to take a car out for one trip. The compensation paid for
such a trip was only twenty-five cents. When the rush or busy hours
were over, they were laid off. Worst of all, no man might know when he
was going to get a car. He must come to the barns in the morning and
wait around in fair and foul weather until such time as he was needed.
Two trips were an average reward for so much waiting- a little over
three hours' work for fifty cents. The work of waiting was not
counted.
  The men complained that this system was extending, and that the time
was not far off when but a few out of 7,000 employees would have
regular two-dollar-a-day work at all. They demanded that the system be
abolished, and that ten hours be considered a day's work, barring
unavoidable delays, with $2.25 pay. They demanded immediate acceptance
of these terms, which the various trolley companies refused.
  Hurstwood at first sympathised with the demands of these men-
indeed, it is a question whether he did not always sympathise with
them to the end, belie him as his actions might. Reading nearly all
the news, he was attracted first by the scare-heads with which the
trouble was noted in the "World." He read it fully- the names of the
seven companies involved, the number of men.
  "They're foolish to strike in this sort of weather," he thought to
himself. "Let 'em win if they can, though."
  The next day there was even a larger notice of it. "Brooklynites
Walk," said the "World." "Knights of Labour Tie up the Trolley Lines
Across the Bridge." "About Seven Thousand Men Out."
  Hurstwood read this, formulating to himself his own idea of what
would be the outcome. He was a great believer in the strength of
corporations.
  "They can't win," he said, concerning the men. "They haven't any
money. The police will protect the companies. They've got to. The
public has to have its cars."
  He didn't sympathise with the corporations, but strength was with
them. So was property and public utility.
  "Those fellows can't win," he thought.
  Among other things, he noticed a circular issued by one of the
companies, which read:

                                             ATLANTIC AVENUE RAILROAD
                   SPECIAL NOTICE

  The motormen and conductors and other employees of this company
having abruptly left its service, an opportunity is now given to all
loyal men who have struck against their will to be reinstated,
providing they will make their applications by twelve o'clock noon
on Wednesday, January 16th. Such men will be given employment (with
guaranteed protection) in the order in which such applications are
received, and runs and positions assigned them accordingly. Otherwise,
they will be considered discharged, and every vacancy will be filled
by a new man as soon as his services can be secured.
                                               (Signed)
                                               Benjamin Norton,
                                                            PRESIDENT

He also noted among the want ads. one which read:

  WANTED- 50 skilled motormen, accustomed to Westinghouse system, to
run U.S. mail cars only, in the City of Brooklyn; protection
guaranteed.

  He noted particularly in each the "protection guaranteed." It
signified to him the unassailable power of the companies.
  "They've got the militia on their side," he thought. "There isn't
anything those men can do."
  While this was still in his mind, the incident with Oeslogge and
Carrie occurred. There had been a good deal to irritate him, but
this seemed much the worst. Never before had she accused him of
stealing- or very near that. She doubted the naturalness of so large a
bill. And he had worked so hard to make expenses seem light. He had
been "doing" butcher and baker in order not to call on her. He had
eaten very little- almost nothing.
  "Damn it all!" he said. "I can get something. I'm not down yet."
  He thought that he really must do something now. It was too cheap to
sit around after such an insinuation as this. Why, after a little,
he would be standing anything.
  He got up and looked out the window into the chilly street. It
came gradually into his mind, as he stood there, to go to Brooklyn.
  "Why not?" his mind said. "Any one can get work over there. You'll
get two a day."
  "How about accidents?" said a voice. "You might get hurt."
  "Oh, there won't be much of that," he answered. "They've called
out the police. Any one who wants to run a car will be protected all
right."
  "You don't know how to run a car," rejoined the voice.
  "I won't apply as a motorman," he answered. "I can ring up fares all
right."
  "They'll want motormen mostly."
  "They'll take anybody; that I know."
  For several hours he argued pro and con with this mental counsellor,
feeling no need to act at once in a matter so sure of profit.
  In the morning he put on his best clothes, which were poor enough,
and began stirring about, putting some bread and meat into a page of a
newspaper. Carrie watched him, interested in this new move.
  "Where are you going?" she asked.
  "Over to Brooklyn," he answered. Then, seeing her still inquisitive,
he added: "I think I can get on over there."
  "On the trolley lines?" said Carrie, astonished.
  "Yes," he rejoined.
  "Aren't you afraid?" she asked.
  "What of?" he answered. "The police are protecting them."
  "The paper said four men were hurt yesterday."
  "Yes," he returned; "but you can't go by what the papers say.
They'll run the cars all right."
  He looked rather determined now, in a desolate sort of way, and
Carrie felt very sorry. Something of the old Hurstwood was here- the
least shadow of what was once shrewd and pleasant strength. Outside,
it was cloudy and blowing a few flakes of snow.
  "What a day to go over there," thought Carrie.
  Now he left before she did, which was a remarkable thing, and
tramped eastward to Fourteenth Street and Sixth Avenue, where he
took the car. He had read that scores of applicants were applying at
the office of the Brooklyn City Railroad building and were being
received. He made his way there by horse-car and ferry- a dark, silent
man- to the offices in question. It was a long way, for no cars were
running, and the day was cold; but he trudged along grimly. Once in
Brooklyn, he could clearly see and feel that a strike was on. People
showed it in their manner. Along the routes of certain tracks not a
car was running. About certain corners and nearby saloons small groups
of men were lounging. Several spring wagons passed him, equipped
with plain wooden chairs, and labelled "Flatbush" or "Prospect Park.
Fare, Ten Cents." He noticed cold and even gloomy faces. Labour was
having its little war.
  When he came near the office in question, he saw a few men
standing about, and some policemen. On the far corners were other men-
whom he took to be strikers- watching. All the houses were small and
wooden, the streets poorly paved. After New York, Brooklyn looked
actually poor and hard-up.
  He made his way into the heart of the small group, eyed by policemen
and the men already there. One of the officers addressed him.
  "What are you looking for?"
  "I want to see if I can get a place."
  "The offices are up those steps," said the bluecoat. His face was
a very neutral thing to contemplate. In his heart of hearts, he
sympathised with the strikers and hated this "scab." In his heart of
hearts, also, he felt the dignity and use of the police force, which
commanded order. Of its true social significance, he never once
dreamed. His was not the mind for that. The two feelings blended in
him- neutralised one another and him. He would have fought for this
man as determinedly as for himself, and yet only so far as
commanded. Strip him of his uniform, and he would have soon picked his
side.
  Hurstwood ascended a dusty flight of steps and entered a small,
dust-coloured office, in which were a railing, a long desk, and
several clerks.
  "Well, sir?" said a middle-aged man, looking up at him from the long
desk.
  "Do you want to hire any men?" inquired Hurstwood.
  "What are you- a motorman?"
  "No; I'm not anything," said Hurstwood.
  He was not at all abashed by his position. He knew these people
needed men. If one didn't take him, another would. This man could take
him or leave him, just as he chose.
  "Well, we prefer experienced men, of course," said the man. He
paused, while Hurstwood smiled indifferently. Then he added: "Still, I
guess you can learn. What is your name?"
  "Wheeler," said Hurstwood.
  The man wrote an order on a small card. "Take that to our barns," he
said, "and give it to the foreman. He'll show you what to do."
  Hurstwood went down and out. He walked straight away in the
direction indicated, while the policemen looked after.
  "There's another wants to try it," said Officer Kiely to Officer
Macey.
  "I have my mind he'll get his fill," returned the latter, quietly.
  They had been in strikes before.
                       Chapter XLI.
                       THE STRIKE

  The barn at which Hurstwood applied was exceedingly short-handed,
and was being operated practically by three men as directors. There
were a lot of green hands around- queer, hungry-looking men, who
looked as if want had driven them to desperate means. They tried to be
lively and willing, but there was an air of hang-dog diffidence
about the place.
  Hurstwood went back through the barns and out into a large, enclosed
lot, where were a series of tracks and loops. A half-dozen cars were
there, manned by instructors, each with a pupil at the lever. More
pupils were waiting at one of the rear doors of the barn.
  In silence Hurstwood viewed this scene, and waited. His companions
took his eye for a while, though they did not interest him much more
than the cars. They were an uncomfortable-looking gang, however. One
or two were very thin and lean. Several were quite stout. Several
others were rawboned and sallow, as if they had been beaten upon by
all sorts of rough weather.
  "Did you see by the paper they are going to call out the militia?"
Hurstwood heard one of them remark.
  "Oh, they'll do that," returned the other. "They always do."
  "Think we're liable to have much trouble?" said another, whom
Hurstwood did not see.
  "Not very."
  "That Scotchman that went out on the last car," put in a voice,
"told me that they hit him in the car with a cinder."
  A small, nervous laugh accompanied this.
  "One of those fellows on the Fifth Avenue line must have had a
hell of a time, according to the papers," drawled another. "They broke
his car windows and pulled him off into the street 'fore the police
could stop 'em."
  "Yes; but there are more police around to-day," was added by
another.
  Hurstwood hearkened without much mental comment. These talkers
seemed scared to him. Their gabbling was feverish- things said to
quiet their own minds. He looked out into the yard and waited.
  Two of the men got around quite near him, but behind his back.
They were rather social, and he listened to what they said.
  "Are you a railroad man?" said one.
  "Me? No. I've always worked in a paper factory."
  "I had a job in Newark until last October," returned the other, with
reciprocal feeling.
  There were some words which passed too low to hear. Then the
conversation became strong again.
  "I don't blame these fellers for striking," said one. "They've got
the right of it, all right, but I had to get something to do."
  "Same here," said the other. "If I had any job in Newark I
wouldn't be over here takin' chances like these."
  "It's hell these days, ain't it?" said the man. "A poor man ain't
nowhere. You could starve, by God, right in the streets, and there
ain't most no one would help you."
  "Right you are," said the other. "The job I had I lost 'cause they
shut down. They run all summer and lay up a big stock, and then shut
down."
  Hurstwood paid some little attention to this. Somehow, he felt a
little superior to these two- a little better off. To him these were
ignorant and commonplace, poor sheep in a driver's hand.
  "Poor devils," he thought, speaking out of the thoughts and feelings
of a bygone period of success.
  "Next," said one of the instructors.
  "You're next," said a neighbour, touching him.
  He went out and climbed on the platform. The instructor took it
for granted that no preliminaries were needed.
  "You see this handle," he said, reaching up to an electric
cut-off, which was fastened to the roof. "This throws the current
off or on. If you want to reverse the car you turn it over here. If
you want to send it forward, you put it over here. If you want to
cut off the power, you keep it in the middle."
  Hurstwood smiled at the simple information.
  "Now, this handle here regulates your speed. To here," he said,
pointing with his finger, "gives you about four miles an hour. This is
eight. When it's full on, you make about fourteen miles an hour."
  Hurstwood watched him calmly. He had seen motormen work before. He
knew just about how they did it, and was sure he could do as well,
with a very little practice.
  The instructor explained a few more details, and then said:
  "Now, we'll back her up."
  Hurstwood stood placidly by, while the car rolled back into the
yard.
  "One thing you want to be careful about, and that is to start
easy. Give one degree time to act before you start another. The one
fault of most men is that they always want to throw her wide open.
That's bad. It's dangerous, too. Wears out the motor. You don't want
to do that."
  "I see," said Hurstwood.
  He waited and waited, while the man talked on.
  "Now you take it," he said, finally.
  The ex-manager laid hand to the lever and pushed it gently, as he
thought. It worked much easier than he imagined, however, with the
result that the car jerked quickly forward, throwing him back
against the door. He straightened up sheepishly, while the
instructor stopped the car with the brake.
  "You want to be careful about that," was all he said.
  Hurstwood found, however, that handling a brake and regulating speed
were not so instantly mastered as he had imagined. Once or twice he
would have ploughed through the rear fence if it had not been for
the hand and word of his companion. The latter was rather patient with
him, but he never smiled.
  "You've got to get the knack of working both arms at once," he said.
"It takes a little practice."
  One o'clock came while he was still on the car practising, and he
began to feel hungry. The day set in snowing, and he was cold. He grew
weary of running to and fro on the short track.
  They ran the car to the end and both got off. Hurstwood went into
the barn and sought a car step, pulling out his paper-wrapped lunch
from his pocket. There was no water and the bread was dry, but he
enjoyed it. There was no ceremony about dining. He swallowed and
looked about, contemplating the dull, homely labour of the thing. It
was disagreeable- miserably disagreeable- in all its phases. Not
because it was bitter, but because it was hard. It would be hard to
any one, he thought.
  After eating, he stood about as before, waiting until his turn came.
  The intention was to give him an afternoon of practice, but the
greater part of the time was spent in waiting about.
  At last evening came, and with it hunger and a debate with himself
as to how he should spend the night. It was half-past five. He must
soon eat. If he tried to go home, it would take him two hours and a
half of cold walking and riding. Besides, he had orders to report at
seven the next morning, and going home would necessitate his rising at
an unholy and disagreeable hour. He had only something like a dollar
and fifteen cents of Carrie's money, with which he had intended to pay
the two weeks' coal bill before the present idea struck him.
  "They must have some place around here," he thought. "Where does
that fellow from Newark stay?"
  Finally he decided to ask. There was a young fellow standing near
one of the doors in the cold, waiting a last turn. He was a mere boy
in years- twenty-one about- but with a body lank and long, because
of privation. A little good living would have made this youth plump
and swaggering.
  "How do they arrange this, if a man hasn't any money?" inquired
Hurstwood, discreetly.
  The fellow turned a keen, watchful face on the inquirer.
  "You mean eat?" he replied.
  "Yes, and sleep. I can't go back to New York tonight."
  "The foreman'll fix that if you ask him, I guess. He did me."
  "That so?"
  "Yes. I just told him I didn't have anything. Gee, I couldn't go
home. I live way over in Hoboken."
  Hurstwood only cleared his throat by way of acknowledgment.
  "They've got a place upstairs here, I understand. I don't know
what sort of a thing it is. Purty tough, I guess. He gave me a meal
ticket this noon. I know that wasn't much."
  Hurstwood smiled grimly, and the boy laughed.
  "It ain't no fun, is it?" he inquired, wishing vainly for a cheery
reply.
  "Not much," answered Hurstwood.
  "I'd tackle him now," volunteered the youth. "He may go 'way."
  Hurstwood did so.
  "Isn't there some place I can stay around here tonight?" he
inquired. "If I have to go back to New York, I'm afraid I won't-"
  "There're some cots upstairs," interrupted the man, "if you want one
of them."
  "That'll do," he assented.
  He meant to ask for a meal ticket, but the seemingly proper moment
never came, and he decided to pay himself that night.
  "I'll ask him in the morning."
  He ate in a cheap restaurant in the vicinity, and, being cold and
lonely, went straight off to seek the loft in question. The company
was not attempting to run cars after nightfall. It was so advised by
the police.
  The room seemed to have been a lounging place for night workers.
There were some nine cots in the place, two or three wooden chairs,
a soap box, and a small, round-bellied stove, in which a fire was
blazing. Early as he was, another man was there before him. The latter
was sitting beside the stove warming his hands.
  Hurstwood approached and held out his own toward the fire. He was
sick of the bareness and privation of all things connected with his
venture, but was steeling himself to hold out. He fancied he could for
a while.
  "Cold, isn't it?" said the early guest.
  "Rather."
  A long silence.
  "Not much of a place to sleep in, is it?" said the man.
  "Better than nothing," replied Hurstwood.
  Another silence.
  "I believe I'll turn in," said the man.
  Rising, he went to one of the cots and stretched himself, removing
only his shoes, and pulling the one blanket and dirty old comforter
over him in a sort of bundle. The sight disgusted Hurstwood, but he
did not dwell on it, choosing to gaze into the stove and think of
something else. Presently he decided to retire, and picked a cot, also
removing his shoes.
  While he was doing so, the youth who had advised him to come here
entered, and, seeing Hurstwood, tried to be genial.
  "Better'n nothin'," he observed, looking around.
  Hurstwood did not take this to himself. He thought it to be an
expression of individual satisfaction, and so did not answer. The
youth imagined he was out of sorts, and set to whistling softly.
Seeing another man asleep, he quit that and lapsed into silence.
  Hurstwood made the best of a bad lot by keeping on his clothes and
pushing away the dirty covering from his head, but at last he dozed in
sheer weariness. The covering became more and more comfortable, its
character was forgotten, and he pulled it about his neck and slept.
  In the morning he was aroused out of a pleasant dream by several men
stirring about in the cold, cheerless room. He had been back in
Chicago in fancy, in his own comfortable home. Jessica had been
arranging to go somewhere, and he had been talking with her about
it. This was so clear in his mind, that he was startled now by the
contrast of this room. He raised his head, and the cold, bitter
reality jarred him into wakefulness.
  "Guess I'd better get up," he said.
  There was no water on this floor. He put on his shoes in the cold
and stood up, shaking himself in his stiffness. His clothes felt
disagreeable, his hair bad.
  "Hell!" he muttered, as he put on his hat.
  Downstairs things were stirring again.
  He found a hydrant, with a trough which had once been used for
horses, but there was no towel here, and his handkerchief was soiled
from yesterday. He contented himself with wetting his eyes with the
ice-cold water. Then he sought the foreman, who was already on the
ground.
  "Had your breakfast yet?" inquired that worthy.
  "No," said Hurstwood.
  "Better get it, then; your car won't be ready for a little while."
  Hurstwood hesitated.
  "Could you let me have a meal ticket?" he asked, with an effort.
  "Here you are," said the man, handing him one.
  He breakfasted as poorly as the night before on some fried steak and
bad coffee. Then he went back.
  "Here," said the foreman, motioning him, when he came in. "You
take this car out in a few minutes."
  Hurstwood climbed up on the platform in the gloomy barn and waited
for a signal. He was nervous, and yet the thing was a relief. Anything
was better than the barn.
  On this the fourth day of the strike, the situation had taken a turn
for the worse. The strikers, following the counsel of their leaders
and the newspapers, had struggled peaceably enough. There had been
no great violence done. Cars had been stopped, it is true, and the men
argued with. Some crews had been won over and led away, some windows
broken, some jeering and yelling done; but in no more than five or six
instances had men been seriously injured. These by crowds whose acts
the leaders disclaimed.
  Idleness, however, and the sight of the company, backed by the
police, triumphing, angered the men. They saw that each day more
cars were going on, each day more declarations were being made by
the company officials that the effective opposition of the strikers
was broken. This put desperate thoughts in the minds of the men.
Peaceful methods meant, they saw, that the companies would soon run
all their cars and those who had complained would be forgotten.
There was nothing so helpful to the companies as peaceful methods.
  All at once they blazed forth, and for a week there was storm and
stress. Cars were assailed, men attacked, policemen struggled with,
tracks torn up, and shots fired, until at last street fights and mob
movements became frequent, and the city was invested with militia.
  Hurstwood knew nothing of the change of temper.
  "Run your car out," called the foreman, waving a vigorous hand at
him. A green conductor jumped up behind and rang the bell twice as a
signal to start. Hurstwood turned the lever and ran the car out
through the door into the street in front of the barn. Here two brawny
policemen got up beside him on the platform- one on either hand.
  At the sound of a gong near the barn door, two bells were given by
the conductor and Hurstwood opened his lever.
  The two policemen looked about them calmly.
  "'Tis cold, all right, this morning," said the one on the left,
who possessed a rich brogue.
  "I had enough of it yesterday," said the other. "I wouldn't want a
steady job of this."
  "Nor I."
  Neither paid the slightest attention to Hurstwood, who stood
facing the cold wind, which was chilling him completely, and
thinking of his orders.
  "Keep a steady gait," the foreman had said. "Don't stop for anyone
who doesn't look like a real passenger. Whatever you do, don't stop
for a crowd."
  The two officers kept silent for a few moments.
  "The last man must have gone through all right," said the officer on
the left. "I don't see his car anywhere."
  "Who's on there?" asked the second officer, referring, of course, to
its complement of policemen.
  "Schaeffer and Ryan."
  There was another silence, in which the car ran smoothly along.
There were not so many houses along this part of the way. Hurstwood
did not see many people either. The situation was not wholly
disagreeable to him. he would do well enough.
  He was brought out of this feeling by the sudden appearance of a
curve ahead, which he had not expected. He shut off the current and
did an energetic turn at the brake, but not in time to avoid an
unnaturally quick turn. It shook him up and made him feel like
making apologetic remarks, but he refrained.
  "You want to look out for them things," said the officer on the
left, condescendingly.
  "That's right," agreed Hurstwood, shamefacedly.
  "There's lots of them on this line," said the officer on the right.
  Around the corner a more populated way appeared. One or two
pedestrians were in view ahead. A boy coming out of a gate with a
tin milk bucket gave Hurstwood his first objectionable greeting.
  "Scab!" he yelled. "Scab!"
  Hurstwood heard it, but tried to make no comment, even to himself.
He knew he would get that, and much more of the same sort, probably.
  At a corner farther up a man stood by the track and signalled the
car to stop.
  "Never mind him," said one of the officers. "He's up to some game."
  Hurstwood obeyed. At the corner he saw the wisdom of it. No sooner
did the man perceive the intention to ignore him, than he shook his
fist.
  "Ah, you bloody coward!" he yelled.
  Some half dozen men, standing on the corner, flung taunts and
jeers after the speeding car.
  Hurstwood winced the least bit. The real thing was slightly worse
than the thoughts of it had been.
  Now came in sight, three or four blocks farther on, a heap of
something on the track.
  "They've been at work, here, all right," said one of the policemen.
  "We'll have an argument, maybe," said the other.
  Hurstwood ran the car close and stopped. He had not done so
wholly, however, before a crowd gathered about. It was composed of
ex-motormen and conductors in part, with a sprinkling of friends and
sympathisers.
  "Come off the car, pardner," said one of the men in a voice meant to
be conciliatory. "You don't want to take the bread out of another
man's mouth, do you?"
  Hurstwood held to his brake and lever, pale and very uncertain
what to do.
  "Stand back," yelled one of the officers, leaning over the
platform railing. "Clear out of this, now. Give the man a chance to do
his work."
  "Listen, pardner," said the leader, ignoring the policeman and
addressing Hurstwood. "We're all working men, like yourself. If you
were a regular motorman, and had been treated as we've been, you
wouldn't want any one to come in and take your place, would you? You
wouldn't want any one to do you out of your chance to get your rights,
would you?"
  "Shut her off! shut her off!" urged the other of the policemen,
roughly. "Get out of this, now," and he jumped the railing and
landed before the crowd and began shoving. Instantly the other officer
was down beside him.
  "Stand back, now," they yelled. "Get out of this. What the hell do
you mean? Out, now."
  It was like a small swarm of bees.
  "Don't shove me," said one of the strikers, determinedly. "I'm not
doing anything."
  "Get out of this!" cried the officer, swinging his club. "I'll
give ye a bat on the sconce. Back, now."
  "What the hell!" cried another of the strikers, pushing the other
way, adding at the same time some lusty oaths.
  Crack came an officer's club on his forehead. He blinked his eyes
blindly a few times, wabbled on his legs, threw up his hands, and
staggered back. In return, a swift fist landed on the officer's neck.
  Infuriated by this, the latter plunged left and right, laying
about madly with his club. He was ably assisted by his brother of
the blue, who poured ponderous oaths upon the troubled waters. No
severe damage was done, owing to the agility of the strikers in
keeping out of reach. They stood about the sidewalk now and jeered.
  "Where is the conductor?" yelled one of the officers, getting his
eye on that individual, who had come nervously forward to stand by
Hurstwood. The latter had stood gazing upon the scene with more
astonishment than fear.
  "Why don't you come down here and get these stones off the track?"
inquired the officer. "What you standing there for? Do you want to
stay here all day? Get down."
  Hurstwood breathed heavily in excitement and jumped down with the
nervous conductor as if he had been called.
  "Hurry up, now," said the other policeman.
  Cold as it was, these officers were hot and mad. Hurstwood worked
with the conductor, lifting stone after stone and warming himself by
the work.
  "Ah, you scab, you!" yelled the crowd. "You coward! Steal a man's
job, will you? Rob the poor, will you, you thief? We'll get you yet,
now. Wait."
  Not all of this was delivered by one man. It came from here and
there, incorporated with much more of the same sort and curses.
  "Work, you blackguards," yelled a voice. "Do the dirty work.
You're the suckers that keep the poor people down!"
  "May God starve ye yet," yelled an old Irish woman, who now threw
open a nearby window and stuck out her head.
  "Yes, and you," she added, catching the eye of one of the policemen.
"You bloody, murtherin' thafe! Crack my son over the head, will you,
you hard-hearted, murtherin' divil? Ah, ye-"
  But the officer turned a deaf ear.
  "Go to the devil, you old hag," he half muttered as he stared
round upon the scattered company.
  Now the stones were off, and Hurstwood took his place again amid a
continued chorus of epithets. Both officers got up beside him and
the conductor rang the bell, when, bang! bang! through window and door
came rocks and stones. One narrowly grazed Hurstwood's head. Another
shattered the window behind.
  "Throw open your lever," yelled one of the officers, grabbing at the
handle himself.
  Hurstwood complied and the car shot away, followed by a rattle of
stones and a rain of curses.
  "That- - - - hit me in the neck," said one of the officers. "I
gave him a good crack for it, though."
  "I think I must have left spots on some of them," said the other.
  "I know that big guy that called us a- - - -," said the first. "I'll
get him yet for that."
  "I thought we were in for it sure, once there," said the second.
  Hurstwood, warmed and excited, gazed steadily ahead. It was an
astonishing experience for him. He had read of these things, but the
reality seemed something altogether new. He was no coward in spirit.
The fact that he had suffered this much now rather operated to
arouse a stolid determination to stick it out. He did not recur in
thought to New York or the flat. This one trip seemed a consuming
thing.
  They now ran into the business heart of Brooklyn uninterrupted.
People gazed at the broken windows of the car and at Hurstwood in
his plain clothes. Voices called "scab" now and then, as well as other
epithets, but no crowd attacked the car. At the downtown end of the
line, one of the officers went to call up his station and report the
trouble.
  "There's a gang out there," he said, "laying for us yet. Better send
some one over there and clean them out."
  The car ran back more quietly- hooted, watched, flung at, but not
attacked. Hurstwood breathed freely when he saw the barns.
  "Well," he observed to himself, "I came out of that all right."
  The car was turned in and he was allowed to loaf a while, but
later he was again called. This time a new team of officers was
aboard. Slightly more confident, he sped the car along the commonplace
streets and felt somewhat less fearful. On one side, however, he
suffered intensely. The day was raw, with a sprinkling of snow and a
gusty wind, made all the more intolerable by the speed of the car. His
clothing was not intended for this sort of work. He shivered,
stamped his feet, and beat his arms as he had seen other motormen do
in the past, but said nothing. The novelty and danger of the situation
modified in a way his disgust and distress at being compelled to be
here, but not enough to prevent him from feeling grim and sour. This
was a dog's life, he thought. It was a tough thing to have to come to.
  The one thought that strengthened him was the insult offered by
Carrie. He was not down so low as to take all that, he thought. He
could do something- this, even- for a while. It would get better. He
would save a little.
  A boy threw a clod of mud while he was thus reflecting and hit him
upon the arm. It hurt sharply and angered him more than he had been
any time since morning.
  "The little cur!" he muttered.
  "Hurt you?" asked one of the policemen.
  "No," he answered.
  At one of the corners, where the car slowed up because of a turn, an
ex-motorman, standing on the sidewalk, called to him:
  "Won't you come out, pardner, and be a man? Remember we're
fighting for decent day's wages, that's all. We've got families to
support." The man seemed most peaceably inclined.
  Hurstwood pretended not to see him. He kept his eyes straight on
before and opened the lever wide. The voice had something appealing in
it.
  All morning this went on and long into the afternoon. He made
three such trips. The dinner he had was no stay for such work and
the cold was telling on him. At each end of the line he stopped to
thaw out, but he could have groaned at the anguish of it. One of the
barnmen, out of pity, loaned him a heavy cap and a pair of sheepskin
gloves, and for once he was extremely thankful.
  On the second trip of the afternoon he ran into a crowd about half
way along the line, that had blocked the car's progress with an old
telegraph pole.
  "Get that thing off the track," shouted the two policemen.
  "Yah, yah, yah!" yelled the crowd. "Get it off yourself."
  The two policemen got down and Hurstwood started to follow.
  "You stay there," one called. "Some one will run away with your
car."
  Amid the babel of voices, Hurstwood heard one close beside him.
  "Come down, pardner, and be a man. Don't fight the poor. Leave
that to the corporations."
  He saw the same fellow who had called to him from the corner. Now,
as before, he pretended not to hear him.
  "Come down," the man repeated gently. "You don't want to fight
poor men. Don't fight at all." It was a most philosophic and
jesuitical motorman.
  A third policeman joined the other two from somewhere and some one
ran to telephone for more officers. Hurstwood gazed about,
determined but fearful.
  A man grabbed him by the coat.
  "Come off of that," he exclaimed, jerking at him and trying to
pull him over the railing.
  "Let go," said Hurstwood, savagely.
  "I'll show you- you scab!" cried a young Irishman, jumping up on the
car and aiming a blow at Hurstwood. The latter ducked and caught it on
the shoulder instead of the jaw.
  "Away from here," shouted an officer, hastening to the rescue, and
adding, of course, the usual oaths.
  Hurstwood recovered himself, pale and trembling. It was becoming
serious with him now. People were looking up and jeering at him. One
girl was making faces.
  He began to waver in his resolution, when a patrol wagon rolled up
and more officers dismounted. Now the track was quickly cleared and
the release effected.
  "Let her go now, quick," said the officer, and again he was off.
  The end came with a real mob, which met the car on its return trip a
mile or two from the barns. It was an exceedingly poor-looking
neighbourhood. He wanted to run fast through it, but again the track
was blocked. He saw men carrying something out to it when he was yet a
half-dozen blocks away.
  "There they are again!" exclaimed one policeman.
  "I'll give them something this time," said the second officer, whose
patience was becoming worn. Hurstwood suffered a qualm of body as
the car rolled up. As before, the crowd began hooting, but now, rather
than come near, they threw things. One or two windows were smashed and
Hurstwood dodged a stone.
  Both policemen ran out toward the crowd, but the latter replied by
running toward the car. A woman- a mere girl in appearance- was
among these, bearing a rough stick. She was exceedingly wrathful and
struck at Hurstwood, who dodged. Thereupon, her companions, duly
encouraged, jumped on the car and pulled Hurstwood over. He had hardly
time to speak or shout before he fell.
  "Let go of me," he said, falling on his side.
  "Ah, you sucker," he heard some one say. Kicks and blows rained on
him. He seemed to be suffocating. Then two men seemed to be dragging
him off and he wrestled for freedom.
  "Let up," said a voice, "you're all right. Stand up."
  He was let loose and recovered himself. Now he recognised two
officers. He felt as if he would faint from exhaustion. Something
was wet on his chin. He put up his hand and felt, then looked. It
was red.
  "They cut me," he said, foolishly, fishing for his handkerchief.
  "Now, now," said one of the officers. "It's only a scratch."
  His senses became cleared now and he looked around. He was
standing in a little store, where they left him for the moment.
Outside, he could see, as he stood wiping his chin, the car and the
excited crowd. A patrol wagon was there, and another.
  He walked over and looked out. It was an ambulance, backing in.
  He saw some energetic charging by the police and arrests being made.
  "Come on, now, if you want to take your car," said an officer,
opening the door and looking in.
  He walked out, feeling rather uncertain of himself. He was very cold
and frightened.
  "Where's the conductor?" he asked.
  "Oh, he's not here now," said the policeman.
  Hurstwood went toward the car and stepped nervously on. As he did so
there was a pistol shot. Something stung his shoulder.
  "Who fired that?" he heard an officer exclaim. "By God! who did
that?" Both left him, running toward a certain building. He paused a
moment and then got down.
  "George!" exclaimed Hurstwood, weakly, "this is too much for me."
  He walked nervously to the corner and hurried down a side street.
  "Whew!" he said, drawing in his breath.
  A half block away, a small girl gazed at him.
  "You'd better sneak," she called.
  He walked homeward in a blinding snowstorm, reaching the ferry by
dusk. The cabins were filled with comfortable souls, who studied him
curiously. His head was still in such a whirl that he felt confused.
All the wonder of the twinkling lights of the river in a white storm
passed for nothing. He trudged doggedly on until he reached the
flat. There he entered and found the room warm. Carrie was gone. A
couple of evening papers were lying on the table where she left
them. He lit the gas and sat down. Then he got up and stripped to
examine his shoulder. It was a mere scratch. He washed his hands and
face, still in a brown study, apparently, and combed his hair. Then he
looked for something to eat, and finally, his hunger gone, sat down in
his comfortable rocking-chair. It was a wonderful relief.
  He put his hand to his chin, forgetting, for the moment, the papers.
  "Well," he said, after a time, his nature recovering itself, "That's
a pretty tough game over there."
  Then he turned and saw the papers. With half a sigh he picked up the
"World."
  "Strike Spreading in Brooklyn," he read. "Rioting Breaks Out in
all Parts of the City."
  He adjusted his paper very comfortably and continued. It was the one
thing he read with absorbing interest.
                       Chapter XLII.
             A TOUCH OF SPRING: THE EMPTY SHELL

  Those who look upon Hurstwood's Brooklyn venture as an error of
judgment will none the less realise the negative influence on him of
the fact that he had tried and failed. Carrie got a wrong idea of
it. He said so little that she imagined he had encountered nothing
worse than the ordinary roughness- quitting so soon in the face of
this seemed trifling. He did not want to work.
  She was now one of a group of oriental beauties who, in the second
act of the comic opera, were paraded by the vizier before the new
potentate as the treasures of his harem. There was no word assigned to
any of them, but on the evening when Hurstwood was housing himself
in the loft of the street-car barn, the leading comedian and star,
feeling exceedingly facetious, said in a profound voice, which created
a ripple of laughter:
  "Well, who are you?"
  It merely happened to be Carrie who was courtesying before him. It
might as well have been any of the others, so far as he was concerned.
He expected no answer and a dull one would have been reproved. But
Carrie, whose experience and belief in herself gave her daring,
courtesied sweetly again and answered:
  "I am yours truly."
  It was a trivial thing to say, and yet something in the way she
did it caught the audience, which laughed heartily at the
mock-fierce potentate towering before the young woman. The comedian
also liked it, hearing the laughter.
  "I thought your name was Smith," he returned, endeavouring to get
the last laugh.
  Carrie almost trembled for her daring after she had said this. All
members of the company had been warned that to interpolate lines or
"business" meant a fine or worse. She did not know what to think.
  As she was standing in her proper position in the wings, awaiting
another entry, the great comedian made his exit past her and paused in
recognition.
  "You can just leave that in hereafter," he remarked, seeing how
intelligent she appeared. "Don't add any more, though."
  "Thank you," said Carrie, humbly. When he went on she found
herself trembling violently.
  "Well, you're in luck," remarked another member of the chorus.
"There isn't another one of us has got a line."
  There was no gainsaying the value of this. Everybody in the
company realised that she had got a start. Carrie hugged herself
when next evening the lines got the same applause. She went home
rejoicing, knowing that soon something must come of it. It was
Hurstwood who, by his presence, caused her merry thoughts to flee
and replaced them with sharp longings for an end of distress.
  The next day she asked him about his venture.
  "They're not trying to run any cars except with police. They don't
want anybody just now- not before next week."
  Next week came, but Carrie saw no change. Hurstwood seemed more
apathetic than ever. He saw her off mornings to rehearsals and the
like with the utmost calm. He read and read. Several times he found
himself staring at an item, but thinking of something else. The
first of these lapses that he sharply noticed concerned a hilarious
party he had once attended at a driving club, of which he had been a
member. He sat, gazing downward, and gradually thought he heard the
old voices and the clink of glasses.
  "You're a dandy, Hurstwood," his friend Walker said. He was standing
again well dressed, smiling, good-natured, the recipient of encores
for a good story.
  All at once he looked up. The room was so still it seemed ghostlike.
He heard the clock ticking audibly and half suspected that he had been
dozing. The paper was so straight in his hands, however, and the items
he had been reading so directly before him, that he rid himself of the
doze idea. Still, it seemed peculiar. When it occurred a second
time, however, it did not seem quite so strange.
  Butcher and grocery man, baker and coal man- not the group with whom
he was then dealing, but those who had trusted him to the limit-
called. He met them all blandly, becoming deft in excuse. At last he
became bold, pretended to be out, or waved them off.
  "They can't get blood out of a turnip," he said. "If I had it I'd
pay them."
  Carrie's little soldier friend, Miss Osborne, seeing her succeeding,
had become a sort of satellite. Little Osborne could never of
herself amount to anything. She seemed to realise it in a sort of
pussy-like way and instinctively concluded to cling with her soft
little claws to Carrie.
  "Oh, you'll get up," she kept telling Carrie with admiration.
"You're so good."
  Timid as Carrie was, she was strong in capability. The reliance of
others made her feel as if she must, and when she must she dared.
Experience of the world and of necessity was in her favour. No
longer the lightest word of a man made her head dizzy. She had learned
that men could change and fail. Flattery in its most palpable form had
lost its force with her. It required superiority- kindly
superiority- to move her- the superiority of a genius like Ames.
  "I don't like the actors in our company," she told Lola one day.
"They're all so stuck on themselves."
  "Don't you think Mr. Barclay's pretty nice?" inquired Lola, who
had received a condescending smile or two from that quarter.
  "Oh, he's nice enough," answered Carrie; "but he isn't sincere. He
assumes such an air."
  Lola felt for her first hold upon Carrie in the following manner:
  "Are you paying room-rent where you are?"
  "Certainly," answered Carrie. "Why?"
  "I know where I could get the loveliest room and bath, cheap. It's
too big for me, but it would be just right for two, and the rent is
only six dollars a week for both."
  "Where?" said Carrie.
  "In Seventeenth Street."
  "Well, I don't know as I'd care to change," said Carrie, who was
already turning over the three-dollar rate in her mind. She was
thinking if she had only herself to support this would leave her
seventeen for herself.
  Nothing came of this until after the Brooklyn adventure of
Hurstwood's and her success with the speaking part. Then she began
to feel as if she must be free. She thought of leaving Hurstwood and
thus making him act for himself, but he had developed such peculiar
traits she feared he might resist any effort to throw him off. He
might hunt her out at the show and hound her in that way. She did
not wholly believe that he would, but he might. This, she knew,
would be an embarrassing thing if he made himself conspicuous in any
way. It troubled her greatly.
  Things were precipitated by the offer of a better part. One of the
actresses playing the part of a modest sweetheart gave notice of
leaving and Carrie was selected.
  "How much are you going to get?" asked Miss Osborne, on hearing
the good news.
  "I didn't ask him," said Carrie.
  "Well, find out. Goodness, you'll never get anything if you don't
ask. Tell them you must have forty dollars, anyhow."
  "Oh, no," said Carrie.
  "Certainly!" exclaimed Lola. "Ask 'em, anyway."
  Carrie succumbed to this prompting, waiting, however, until the
manager gave her notice of what clothing she must have to fit the
part.
  "How much do I get?" she inquired.
  "Thirty-five dollars," he replied.
  Carrie was too much astonished and delighted to think of
mentioning forty. She was nearly beside herself, and almost hugged
Lola, who clung to her at the news.
  "It isn't as much as you ought to get," said the latter, "especially
when you've got to buy clothes."
  Carrie remembered this with a start. Where to get the money? She had
none laid up for such an emergency. Rent day was drawing near.
  "I'll not do it," she said, remembering her necessity. "I don't
use the flat. I'm not going to give up my money this time. I'll move."
  Fitting into this came another appeal from Miss Osborne, more urgent
than ever.
  "Come live with me, won't you?" she pleaded. "We can have the
loveliest room. It won't cost you hardly anything that way."
  "I'd like to," said Carrie, frankly.
  "Oh, do," said Lola. "We'll have such a good time."
  Carrie thought a while.
  "I believe I will," she said, and then added: "I'll have to see
first, though."
  With the idea thus grounded, rent day approaching, and clothes
calling for instant purchase, she soon found excuse in Hurstwood's
lassitude. He said less and drooped more than ever.
  As rent day approached, an idea grew in him. It was fostered by
the demands of creditors and the impossibility of holding up many
more. Twenty-eight dollars was too much for rent. "It's hard on
her," he thought. "We could get a cheaper place."
  Stirred with this idea, he spoke at the breakfast table.
  "Don't you think we pay too much rent here?" he asked.
  "Indeed I do," said Carrie, not catching his drift.
  "I should think we could get a smaller place," he suggested. "We
don't need four rooms."
  Her countenance, had he been scrutinising her, would have
exhibited the disturbance she felt at this evidence of his
determination to stay by her. He saw nothing remarkable in asking
her to come down lower.
  "Oh, I don't know," she answered, growing wary.
  "There must be places around here where we could get a couple of
rooms, which would do just as well."
  Her heart revolted. "Never!" she thought. Who would furnish the
money to move? To think of being in two rooms with him! She resolved
to spend her money for clothes quickly, before something terrible
happened. That very day she did it. Having done so, there was but
one other thing to do.
  "Lola," she said, visiting her friend, "I think I'll come."
  "Oh, jolly!" cried the latter.
  "Can we get it right away?" she asked, meaning the room.
  "Certainly," cried Lola.
  They went to look at it. Carrie had saved ten dollars from her
expenditures- enough for this and her board beside. Her enlarged
salary would not begin for ten days yet- would not reach her for
seventeen. She paid half of the six dollars with her friend.
  "Now, I've just enough to get on to the end of the week," she
confided.
  "Oh, I've got some," said Lola. "I've got twenty-five dollars, if
you need it."
  "No," said Carrie. "I guess I'll get along."
  They decided to move Friday, which was two days away. Now that the
thing was settled, Carrie's heart misgave her. She felt very much like
a criminal in the matter. Each day looking at Hurstwood, she had
realised that, along with the disagreeableness of his attitude,
there was something pathetic.
  She looked at him the same evening she had made up her mind to go,
and now he seemed not so shiftless and worthless, but run down and
beaten upon by chance. His eyes were not keen, his face marked, his
hands flabby. She thought his hair had a touch of grey. All
unconscious of his doom, he rocked and read his paper, while she
glanced at him.
  Knowing that the end was so near, she became rather solicitous.
  "Will you go over and get some canned peaches?" she asked Hurstwood,
laying down a two-dollar bill.
  "Certainly," he said, looking in wonder at the money.
  "See if you can get some nice asparagus," she added. "I'll cook it
for dinner."
  Hurstwood rose and took the money, slipping on his overcoat and
getting his hat. Carrie noticed that both of these articles of apparel
were old and poor looking in appearance. It was plain enough before,
but now it came home with peculiar force. Perhaps he couldn't help it,
after all. He had done well in Chicago. She remembered his fine
appearance the days he had met her in the park. Then he was so
sprightly, so clean. Had it been all his fault?
  He came back and laid the change down with the food.
  "You'd better keep it," she observed. "We'll need other things."
  "No," he said, with a sort of pride; "you keep it."
  "Oh, go on and keep it," she replied, rather unnerved. "There'll
be other things."
  He wondered at this, not knowing the pathetic figure he had become
in her eyes. She restrained herself with difficulty from showing a
quaver in her voice.
  To say truly, this would have been Carrie's attitude in any case.
She had looked back at times upon her parting from Drouet and had
regretted that she had served him so badly. She hoped she would
never meet him again, but she was ashamed of her conduct. Not that she
had any choice in the final separation. She had gone willingly to seek
him, with sympathy in her heart, when Hurstwood had reported him
ill. There was something cruel somewhere, and not being able to
track it mentally to its logical lair, she concluded with feeling that
he would never understand what Hurstwood had done and would see
hard-hearted decision in her deed; hence her shame. Not that she cared
for him. She did not want to make any one who had been good to her
feel badly.
  She did not realise what she was doing by allowing these feelings to
possess her. Hurstwood, noticing the kindness, conceived better of
her. "Carrie's good-natured, anyhow," he thought.
  Going to Miss Osborne's that afternoon, she found that little lady
packing and singing.
  "Why don't you come over with me to-day?" she asked.
  "Oh, I can't," said Carrie. "I'll be there Friday. Would you mind
lending me the twenty-five dollars you spoke of?"
  "Why, no," said Lola, going for her purse.
  "I want to get some other things," said Carrie.
  "Oh, that's all right," answered the little girl, good-naturedly,
glad to be of service.
  It had been days since Hurstwood had done more than go to the
grocery or to the news-stand. Now the weariness of indoors was upon
him- had been for two days- but chill, grey weather had held him back.
Friday broke fair and warm. It was one of those lovely harbingers of
spring, given as a sign in dreary winter that earth is not forsaken of
warmth and beauty. The blue heaven, holding its one golden orb, poured
down a crystal wash of warm light. It was plain, from the voice of the
sparrows, that all was halcyon outside. Carrie raised the front
windows, and felt the south wind blowing.
  "It's lovely out to-day," she remarked.
  "Is it?" said Hurstwood.
  After breakfast, he immediately got his other clothes.
  "Will you be back for lunch?" asked Carrie, nervously.
  "No," he said.
  He went out into the streets and tramped north, along Seventh
Avenue, idly fixing upon the Harlem River as an objective point. He
had seen some ships up there, the time he had called upon the brewers.
He wondered how the territory thereabouts was growing.
  Passing Fifty-ninth Street, he took the west side of Central Park,
which he followed to Seventy-eighth Street. Then he remembered the
neighbourhood and turned over to look at the mass of buildings
erected. It was very much improved. The great open spaces were filling
up. Coming back, he kept to the Park until 110th Street, and then
turned into Seventh Avenue again, reaching the pretty river by one
o'clock.
  There it ran winding before his gaze, shining brightly in the
clear light, between the undulating banks on the right and the tall,
tree-covered heights on the left. The spring-like atmosphere woke
him to a sense of its loveliness, and for a few moments he stood
looking at it, folding his hands behind his back. Then he turned and
followed it toward the east side, idly seeking the ships he had
seen. It was four o'clock before the waning day, with its suggestion
of a cooler evening, caused him to return. He was hungry and would
enjoy eating in the warm room.
  When he reached the flat by half-past five, it was still dark. He
knew that Carrie was not there, not only because there was no light
showing through the transom, but because the evening papers were stuck
between the outside knob and the door. He opened with his key and went
in. Everything was still dark. Lighting the gas, he sat down,
preparing to wait a little while. Even if Carrie did come now,
dinner would be late. He read until six, then got up to fix
something for himself.
  As he did so, he noticed that the room seemed a little queer. What
was it? He looked around, as if he missed something, and then saw an
envelope near where he had been sitting. It spoke for itself, almost
without further action on his part.
  Reaching over, he took it, a sort of chill settling upon him even
while he reached. The crackle of the envelope in his hands was loud.
Green paper money lay soft within the note.
  "Dear George," he read, crunching the money in one hand. "I'm
going away. I'm not coming back any more. It's no use trying to keep
up the flat; I can't do it. I wouldn't mind helping you, if I could,
but I can't support us both, and pay the rent. I need what little I
make to pay for my clothes. I'm leaving twenty dollars. It's all I
have just now. You can do whatever you like with the furniture. I
won't want it.- Carrie."
  He dropped the note and looked quietly round. Now he knew what he
missed. It was the little ornamental clock, which was hers. It had
gone from the mantel-piece. He went into the front room, his
bedroom, the parlour, lighting the gas as he went. From the chiffonier
had gone the knick-knacks of silver and plate. From the table-top, the
lace coverings. He opened the wardrobe- no clothes of hers. He
opened the drawers- nothing of hers. Her trunk was gone from its
accustomed place. Back in his own room hung his old clothes, just as
he had left them. Nothing else was gone.
  He stepped onto the parlour and stood for a few moments looking
vacantly at the floor. The silence grew oppressive. The little flat
seemed wonderfully deserted. He wholly forgot that he was hungry, that
it was only dinner-time. It seemed later in the night.
  Suddenly, he found that the money was still in his hands. There were
twenty dollars in all, as she had said. Now he walked back, leaving
the lights ablaze, and feeling as if the flat were empty.
  "I'll get out of this," he said to himself.
  Then the sheer loneliness of his situation rushed upon him in full.
  "Left me!" he muttered, and repeated, "left me!"
  The place that had been so comfortable, where he had spent so many
days of warmth, was now a memory. Something colder and chillier
confronted him. He sank down in his chair, resting his chin in his
hand- mere sensation, without thought, holding him.
  Then something like a bereaved affection and self-pity swept over
him.
  "She needn't have gone away," he said. "I'd have got something."
  He sat a long while without rocking, and added quite clearly, out
loud:
  "I tried, didn't I?"
  At midnight he was still rocking, staring at the floor.
                      Chapter XLIII.
        THE WORLD TURNS FLATTERER: AN EYE IN THE DARK

  Installed in her comfortable room, Carrie wondered how Hurstwood had
taken her departure. She arranged a few things hastily and then left
for the theatre, half expecting to encounter him at the door. Not
finding him, her dread lifted, and she felt more kindly toward him.
She quite forgot him until about to come out, after the show, when the
chance of his being there frightened her. As day after day passed
and she heard nothing at all, the thought of being bothered by him
passed. In a little while she was, except for occasional thoughts,
wholly free of the gloom with which her life had been weighed in the
flat.
  It is curious to note how quickly a profession absorbs one. Carrie
became wise in theatrical lore, hearing the gossip of little Lola. She
learned what the theatrical papers were, which ones published items
about actresses and the like. She began to read the newspaper notices,
not only of the opera in which she had so small a part, but of others.
Gradually the desire for notice took hold of her. She longed to be
renowned like others, and read with avidity all the complimentary or
critical comments made concerning others high in her profession. The
showy world in which her interest lay completely absorbed her.
  It was about this time that the newspapers and magazines were
beginning to pay that illustrative attention to the beauties of the
stage which has since become fervid. The newspapers, and
particularly the Sunday newspapers, indulged in large decorative
theatrical pages, in which the faces and forms of well-known
theatrical celebrities appeared, enclosed with artistic scrolls. The
magazines also- or at least one or two of the newer ones- published
occasional portraits of pretty stars, and now and again photos of
scenes from various plays. Carrie watched these with growing interest.
When would a scene from her opera appear? When would some paper
think her photo worth while?
  The Sunday before taking her new part she scanned the theatrical
pages for some little notice. It would have accorded with her
expectations if nothing had been said, but there in the squibs,
tailing off several more substantial items, was a wee notice. Carrie
read it with a tingling body:

  The part of Katisha, the country maid, in "The Wives of Abdul" at
the Broadway, heretofore played by Inez Carew, will be hereafter
filled by Carrie Madenda, one of the cleverest members of the chorus.

  Carrie hugged herself with delight. Oh, wasn't it just fine! At
last! The first, the long-hoped for, the delightful notice! And they
called her clever. She could hardly restrain herself from laughing
loudly. Had Lola seen it?
  "They've got a notice here of the part I'm going to play tomorrow
night," said Carrie to her friend.
  "Oh, jolly! Have they?" cried Lola, running to her. "That's all
right," she said, looking. "You'll get more now, if you do well. I had
my picture in the 'World' once."
  "Did you?" asked Carrie.
  "Did I? Well, I should say," returned the little girl. "They had a
frame around it."
  Carrie laughed.
  "They've never published my picture."
  "But they will," said Lola. "You'll see. You do better than most
that get theirs in now."
  Carrie felt deeply grateful for this. She almost loved Lola for
the sympathy and praise she extended. It was so helpful to her- so
almost necessary.
  Fulfilling her part capably brought another notice in the papers
that she was doing her work acceptably. This pleased her immensely.
She began to think the world was taking note of her.
  The first week she got her thirty-five dollars, it seemed an
enormous sum. Paving only three dollars for room rent seemed
ridiculous. After giving Lola her twenty-five, she still had seven
dollars left. With four left over from previous earnings, she had
eleven. Five of this went to pay the regular installment on the
clothes she had to buy. The next week she was even in greater feather.
Now, only three dollars need be paid for room rent and five on her
clothes. The rest she had for food and her own whims.
  "You'd better save a little for summer," cautioned Lola. "We'll
probably close in May."
  "I intend to," said Carrie.
  The regular entrance of thirty-five dollars a week to one who has
endured scant allowances for several years is a demoralising thing.
Carrie found her purse bursting with good green bills of comfortable
denominations. Having no one dependent upon her, she began to buy
pretty clothes and pleasing trinkets, to eat well, and to ornament her
room. Friends were not long in gathering about. She met a few young
men who belonged to Lola's staff. The members of the opera company
made her acquaintance without the formality of introduction. One of
these discovered a fancy for her. On several occasions he strolled
home with her.
  "Let's stop in and have a rarebit," he suggested one midnight.
  "Very well," said Carrie.
  In the rosy restaurant, filled with the merry lovers of late
hours, she found herself criticising this man. He was too stilted, too
self-opinionated. He did not talk of anything that lifted her above
the common run of clothes and material success. When it was all
over, he smiled most graciously.
  "Got to go straight home, have you?" he said.
  "Yes," she answered, with an air of quiet understanding.
  "She's not so inexperienced as she looks," he thought, and
thereafter his respect and ardour were increased.
  She could not help sharing in Lola's love for a good time. There
were days when they went carriage riding, nights when after the show
they dined, afternoons when they strolled along Broadway, tastefully
dressed. She was getting in the metropolitan whirl of pleasure.
  At last her picture appeared in one of the weeklies. She had not
known of it, and it took her breath. "Miss Carrie Madenda," it was
labelled. "One of the favourites of 'The Wives of Abdul' company."
At Lola's advice she had had some pictures taken by Sarony. They had
got one there. She thought of going down and buying a few copies of
the paper, but remembered that there was no one she knew well enough
to send them to. Only Lola, apparently, in all the world was
interested.
  The metropolis is a cold place socially, and Carrie soon found
that a little money brought her nothing. The world of wealth and
distinction was quite as far away as ever. She could feel that there
was no warm, sympathetic friendship back of the easy merriment with
which many approached her. All seemed to be seeking their own
amusement, regardless of the possible sad consequence to others. So
much for the lessons of Hurstwood and Drouet.
  In April she learned that the opera would probably last until the
middle or the end of May, according to the size of the audiences. Next
season it would go on the road. She wondered if she would be with
it. As usual, Miss Osborne, owing to her moderate salary, was for
securing a home engagement.
  "They're putting on a summer play at the Casino," she announced,
after figuratively putting her ear to the ground. "Let's try and get
in that."
  "I'm willing," said Carrie.
  They tried in time and were apprised of the proper date to apply
again. That was May 16th. Meanwhile their own show closed May 5th.
  "Those that want to go with the show next season," said the manager,
"will have to sign this week."
  "Don't you sign," advised Lola. "I wouldn't go."
  "I know," said Carrie, "but maybe I can't get anything else."
  "Well, I won't," said the little girl, who had a resource in her
admirers. "I went once and I didn't have anything at the end of the
season."
  Carrie thought this over. She had never been on the road.
  "We can get along," added Lola. "I always have."
  Carrie did not sign.
  The manager who was putting on the summer skit at the Casino had
never heard of Carrie, but the several notices she had received, her
published picture, and the programme bearing her name had some
little weight with him. He gave her a silent part at thirty dollars
a week.
  "Didn't I tell you?" said Lola. "It doesn't do you any good to go
away from New York. They forget all about you if you do."
  Now, because Carrie was pretty, the gentlemen who made up the
advance illustrations of shows about to appear for the Sunday papers
selected Carrie's photo along with others to illustrate the
announcement. Because she was very pretty, they gave it excellent
space and drew scrolls about it. Carrie was delighted. Still, the
management did not seem to have seen anything of it. At least, no more
attention was paid to her than before. At the same time there seemed
very little in her part. It consisted of standing around in all
sorts of scenes, a silent little Quakeress. The author of the skit had
fancied that a great deal could be made of such a part, given to the
right actress, but now, since it had been doled out to Carrie, he
would as leave have had it cut out.
  "Don't kick, old man," remarked the manager. "If it don't go the
first week we will cut it out."
  Carrie had no warning of this halcyon intention. She practised her
part ruefully, feeling that she was effectually shelved. At the
dress rehearsal she was disconsolate.
  "That isn't so bad," said the author, the manager noting the curious
effect which Carrie's blues had upon the part. "Tell her to frown a
little more when Sparks dances."
  Carrie did not know it, but there was the least show of wrinkles
between her eyes and her mouth was puckered quaintly.
  "Frown a little more, Miss Madenda," said the stage manager.
  Carrie instantly brightened up, thinking he had meant it as a
rebuke.
  "No; frown," he said. "Frown as you did before."
  Carrie looked at him in astonishment.
  "I mean it," he said. "Frown hard when Mr. Sparks dances. I want
to see how it looks."
  It was easy enough to do. Carrie scowled. The effect was something
so quaint and droll it caught even the manager.
  "That is good," he said. "If she'll do that all through, I think
it will take."
  Going over to Carrie, he said:
  "Suppose you try frowning all through. Do it hard. Look mad. It'll
make the part really funny."
  On the opening night it looked to Carrie as if there were nothing to
her part, after all. The happy, sweltering audience did not seem to
see her in the first act. She frowned and frowned, but to no effect.
Eyes were riveted upon the more elaborate efforts of the stars.
  In the second act, the crowd, wearied by a dull conversation,
roved with its eyes about the stage and sighted her. There she was,
gray-suited, sweet-faced, demure, but scowling. At first the general
idea was that she was temporarily irritated, that the look was genuine
and not fun at all. As she went on frowning, looking now at one
principal and now at the other, the audience began to smile. The
portly gentlemen in the front rows began to feel that she was a
delicious little morsel. It was the kind of frown they would have
loved to force away with kisses. All the gentlemen yearned toward her.
She was capital.
  At last, the chief comedian, singing in the centre of the stage,
noticed a giggle where it was not expected. Then another and
another. When the place came for loud applause it was only moderate.
What could be the trouble? He realised that something was up.
  All at once, after an exit, he caught sight of Carrie. She was
frowning alone on the stage and the audience was giggling and
laughing.
  "By George, I won't stand that!" thought the thespian. "I'm not
going to have my work cut up by some one else. Either she quits that
when I do my turn or I quit."
  "Why, that's all right," said the manager, when the kick came.
"That's what she's supposed to do. You needn't pay any attention to
that."
  "But she ruins my work."
  "No, she don't," returned the former, soothingly. "It's only a
little fun on the side."
  "It is, eh?" exclaimed the big comedian. "She killed my hand all
right. I'm not going to stand that."
  "Well, wait until after the show. Wait until tomorrow. We'll see
what we can do."
  The next act, however, settled what was to be done. Carrie was the
chief feature of the play. The audience, the more it studied her,
the more it indicated its delight. Every other feature paled beside
the quaint, teasing, delightful atmosphere which Carrie contributed
while on the stage. Manager and company realised she had made a hit.
  The critics of the daily papers completed her triumph. There were
long notices in praise of the quality of the burlesque, touched with
recurrent references to Carrie. The contagious mirth of the thing
was repeatedly emphasised.
  "Miss Madenda presents one of the most delightful bits of
character work ever seen on the Casino stage," observed the sage
critic of the "Sun." "It is a bit of quiet, unassuming drollery
which warms like good wine. Evidently the part was not intended to
take precedence, as Miss Madenda is not often on the stage, but the
audience, with the characteristic perversity of such bodies,
selected for itself. The little Quakeress was marked for a favourite
the moment she appeared, and thereafter easily held attention and
applause. The vagaries of fortune are indeed curious."
  The critic of the "Evening World," seeking as usual to establish a
catch phrase which should "go" with the town, wound up by advising:
"If you wish to be merry, see Carrie frown."
  The result was miraculous so far as Carrie's fortune was
concerned. Even during the morning she received a congratulatory
message from the manager.
  "You seem to have taken the town by storm," he wrote. "This is
delightful. I am as glad for your sake as for my own."
  The author also sent word.
  That evening when she entered the theatre the manager had a most
pleasant greeting for her.
  "Mr. Stevens," he said, referring to the author, "is preparing a
little song, which he would like you to sing next week."
  "Oh, I can't sing," returned Carrie.
  "It isn't anything difficult. 'It's something that is very
simple,' he says, 'and would suit you exactly.'"
  "Of course, I wouldn't mind trying," said Carrie, archly.
  "Would you mind coming to the box-office a few moments before you
dress?" observed the manager, in addition. "There's a little matter
I want to speak to you about."
  "Certainly," replied Carrie.
  In that latter place the manager produced a paper.
  "Now, of course," he said, "we want to be fair with you in the
matter of salary. Your contract here only calls for thirty dollars a
week for the next three months. How would it do to make it, say, one
hundred and fifty a week and extend it for twelve months?"
  "Oh, very well," said Carrie, scarcely believing her ears.
  "Supposing, then, you just sign this."
  Carrie looked and beheld a new contract made out like the other one,
with the exception of the new figures of salary and time. With a
hand trembling from excitement she affixed her name.
  "One hundred and fifty a week!" she murmured, when she was again
alone. She found, after all- as what millionaire has not?- that
there was no realising, in consciousness, the meaning of large sums.
It was only a shimmering, glittering phrase in which lay a world of
possibilities.
  Down in a third-rate Bleecker Street hotel, the brooding Hurstwood
read the dramatic item covering Carrie's success, without at first
realising who was meant. Then suddenly it came to him and he read
the whole thing over again.
  "That's her, all right, I guess," he said.
  Then he looked about upon a dingy, moth-eaten hotel lobby.
  "I guess she's struck it," he thought, a picture of the old shiny,
plush-covered world coming back, with its lights, its ornaments, its
carriages, and flowers. Ah, she was in the walled city now! Its
splendid gates had opened, admitting her from a cold, dreary
outside. She seemed a creature afar off- like every other celebrity he
had known.
  "Well, let her have it," he said. "I won't bother her."
  It was the grim resolution of a bent, bedraggled, but unbroken
pride.
                       Chapter XLIV.
       AND THIS IS NOT ELF LAND: WHAT GOLD WILL NOT BUY

  When Carrie got back on the stage, she found that over night her
dressing-room had been changed.
  "You are to use this room, Miss Madenda," said one of the stage
lackeys.
  No longer any need of climbing several flights of steps to a small
coop shared with another. Instead, a comparatively large and
commodious chamber with conveniences not enjoyed by the small fry
overhead. She breathed deeply and with delight. Her sensations were
more physical than mental. In fact, she was scarcely thinking at
all. Heart and body were having their say.
  Gradually the deference and congratulation gave her a mental
appreciation of her state. She was no longer ordered, but requested,
and that politely. The other members of the cast looked at her
enviously as she came out arrayed in her simple habit, which she
wore all through the play. All those who had supposedly been her
equals and superiors now smiled the smile of sociability, as much as
to say: "How friendly we have always been." Only the star comedian
whose part had been so deeply injured stalked by himself.
Figuratively, he could not kiss the hand that smote him.
  Doing her simple part, Carrie gradually realised the meaning of
the applause which was for her, and it was sweet. She felt mildly
guilty of something- perhaps unworthiness. When her associates
addressed her in the wings she only smiled weakly. The pride and
daring of place were not for her. It never once crossed her mind to be
reserved or haughty- to be other than she had been. After the
performances she rode to her room with Lola, in a carriage provided.
  Then came a week in which the first fruits of success were offered
to her lips- bowl after bowl. It did not matter that her splendid
salary had not begun. The world seemed satisfied with the promise. She
began to get letters and cards. A Mr. Withers- whom she did not know
from Adam- having learned by some hook or crook where she resided,
bowed himself politely in.
  "You will excuse me for intruding," he said; "but have you been
thinking of changing your apartments?"
  "I hadn't thought of it," returned Carrie.
  "Well, I am connected with the Wellington- the new hotel on
Broadway. You have probably seen notices of it in the papers."
  Carrie recognised the name as standing for one of the newest and
most imposing hostelries. She had heard it spoken of as having a
splendid restaurant.
  "Just so," went on Mr. Withers, accepting her acknowledgment of
familiarity. "We have some very elegant rooms at present which we
would like to have you look at, if you have not made up your mind
where you intend to reside for the summer. Our apartments are
perfect in every detail- hot and cold water, private baths, special
hall service for every floor, elevators and all that. You know what
our restaurant is."
  Carrie looked at him quietly. She was wondering whether he took
her to be a millionaire.
  "What are your rates?" she inquired.
  "Well, now, that is what I came to talk with you privately about.
Our regular rates are anywhere from three to fifty dollars a day."
  "Mercy!" interrupted Carrie. "I couldn't pay any such rate as that."
  "I know how you feel about it," exclaimed Mr. Withers, halting. "But
just let me explain. I said those are our regular rates. Like every
other hotel we make special ones, however. Possibly you have not
thought about it, but your name is worth something to us."
  "Oh!" ejaculated Carrie, seeing at a glance.
  "Of course. Every hotel depends upon the repute of its patrons. A
well-known actress like yourself," and he bowed politely, while Carrie
flushed, "draws attention to the hotel, and- although you may not
believe it- patrons."
  "Oh, yes," returned Carrie, vacantly, trying to arrange this curious
proposition in her mind.
  "Now," continued Mr. Withers, swaying his derby hat softly and
beating one of his polished shoes upon the floor, "I want to
arrange, if possible, to have you come and stop at the Wellington. You
need not trouble about terms. In fact, we need hardly discuss them.
Anything will do for the summer- a mere figure- anything that you
think you could afford to pay."
  Carrie was about to interrupt, but he gave her no chance.
  "You can come to-day or to-morrow-the earlier the better- and we
will give you your choice of nice, light, outside rooms- the very best
we have."
  "You're very kind," said Carrie, touched by the agent's extreme
affability. "I should like to come very much. I would want to pay what
is right, however. I shouldn't want  to-"
  "You need not trouble about that at all," interrupted Mr. Withers.
"We can arrange that to your entire satisfaction at any time. If three
dollars a day is satisfactory to you, it will be so to us. All you
have to do is to pay that sum to the clerk at the end of, the week
or month, just as you wish, and he will give you a receipt for what
the rooms would cost if charged for at our regular rates."
  The speaker paused.
  "Suppose you come and look at the rooms," he added.
  "I'd be glad to," said Carrie, "but I have a rehearsal this
morning."
  "I did not mean at once," he returned, "Any time will do. Would this
afternoon be inconvenient?"
  "Not at all," said Carrie.
  Suddenly she remembered Lola, who was out at the time.
  "I have a room-mate," she added, "who will have to go wherever I do.
I forgot about that."
  "Oh, very well," said Mr. Withers, blandly. "It is for you to say
whom you want with you. As I say, all that can be arranged to suit
yourself."
  He bowed and backed toward the door.
  "At four, then, we may expect you?"
  "Yes," said Carrie.
  "I will be there to show you," and so Mr. Withers withdrew.
  After rehearsal Carrie informed Lola.
  "Did they really?" exclaimed the latter, thinking of the
Wellington as a group of managers. "Isn't that fine? Oh, jolly! It's
so swell. That's where we dined that night we went with those two
Cushing boys. Don't you know?"
  "I remember," said Carrie.
  "Oh, it's as fine as it can be."
  "We'd better be going up there," observed Carrie, later in the
afternoon.
  The rooms which Mr. Withers displayed to Carrie and Lola were
three and bath- a suite on the parlour floor. They were done in
chocolate and dark red, with rugs and hangings to match. Three windows
looked down into busy Broadway on the east, three into a side street
which crossed there. There were two lovely bedrooms, set with brass
and white enamel beds, white, ribbon-trimmed chairs and chiffoniers to
match. In the third room, or parlour, was a piano, a heavy piano lamp,
with a shade of gorgeous pattern, a library table, several huge easy
rockers, some dado book shelves, and a gilt curio case, filled with
oddities. Pictures were upon the walls, soft Turkish pillows upon
the divan, footstools of brown plush upon the floor. Such
accommodations would ordinarily cost a hundred dollars a week.
  "Oh, lovely!" exclaimed Lola, walking about.
  "It is comfortable," said Carrie, who was lifting a lace curtain and
looking down into crowded Broadway.
  The bath was a handsome affair, done in white enamel, with a
large, blue-bordered stone tub and nickel trimmings. It was bright and
commodious, with a bevelled mirror set in the wall at one end and
incandescent lights arranged in three places.
  "Do you find these satisfactory?" observed Mr. Withers.
  "Oh, very," answered Carrie.
  "Well, then, any time you find it convenient to move in, they are
ready. The boy will bring you the keys at the door."
  Carrie noted the elegantly carpeted and decorated hall, the
marbelled lobby, and showy waiting-room. It was such a place as she
had often dreamed of occupying.
  "I guess we'd better move right away, don't you think so?" she
observed to Lola, thinking of the commonplace chamber in Seventeenth
Street.
  "Oh, by all means," said the latter.
  The next day her trunks left for the new abode.
  Dressing, after the matinee on Wednesday, a knock came at her
dressing-room door.
  Carrie looked at the card handed by the boy and suffered a shock
of surprise.
  "Tell her I'll be right out," she said softly. Then, looking at
the card, added: "Mrs. Vance."
  "Why, you little sinner," the latter exclaimed, as she saw Carrie
coming toward her across the now vacant stage. "How in the world did
this happen?"
  Carrie laughed merrily. There was no trace of embarrassment in her
friend's manner. You would have thought that the long separation had
come about accidentally.
  "I don't know," returned Carrie, warming, in spite of her first
troubled feelings, toward this handsome, good-natured young matron.
  "Well, you know, I saw your picture in the Sunday paper, but your
name threw me off. I thought it must be you or somebody that looked
just like you, and I said: 'Well, now, I will go right down there
and see.' I was never more surprised in my life. How are you, anyway?"
  "Oh, very well," returned Carrie. "How have you been?"
  "Fine. But aren't you a success! Dear, oh! All the papers talking
about you. I should think you would be just too proud to breathe. I
was almost afraid to come back here this afternoon."
  "Oh, nonsense," said Carrie, blushing. "You know I'd be glad to
see you."
  "Well, anyhow, here you are. Can't you come up and take dinner
with me now? Where are you stopping?"
  "At the Wellington," said Carrie, who permitted herself a touch of
pride in the acknowledgment.
  "Oh, are you?" exclaimed the other, upon whom the name was not
without its proper effect.
  Tactfully, Mrs. Vance avoided the subject of Hurstwood, of whom
she could not help thinking. No doubt Carrie had left him. That much
she surmised.
  "Oh, I don't think I can," said Carrie, "to-night. I have so
little time. I must be back here by 7.30. Won't you come and dine with
me?"
  "I'd be delighted, but I can't to-night," said Mrs. Vance,
studying Carrie's fine appearance. The latter's good fortune made
her seem more than ever worthy and delightful in the other's eyes.
"I promised faithfully to be home at six." Glancing at the small
gold watch pinned to her bosom, she added: "I must be going, too. Tell
me when you're coming up, if at all."
  "Why, any time you like," said Carrie.
  "Well, to-morrow then. I'm living at the Chelsea now."
  "Moved again?" exclaimed Carrie, laughing.
  "Yes. You know I can't stay six months in one place. I just have
to move. Remember now- half-past five."
  "I won't forget," said Carrie, casting a glance at her as she went
away. Then it came to her that she was as good as this woman now-
perhaps better. Something in the other's solicitude and interest
made her feel as if she were the one to condescend.
  Now, as on each preceding day, letters were handed her by the
doorman at the Casino. This was a feature which had rapidly
developed since Monday. What they contained she well knew. Mash
notes were old affairs in their mildest form. She remembered having
received her first one far back in Columbia City. Since then, as a
chorus girl, she had received others- gentlemen who prayed for an
engagement. They were common sport between her and Lola, who
received some also. They both frequently made light of them.
  Now, however, they came thick and fast. Gentlemen with fortunes
did not hesitate to note, as an addition to their own amiable
collection of virtues, that they had their horses and carriages.
Thus one:

  I have a million in my own right. I could give you every luxury.
There isn't anything you could ask for that you couldn't have. I say
this, not because I want to speak of my money, but because I love
you and wish to gratify your every desire. It is love that prompts
me to write. Will you not give me one half-hour in which to plead my
cause?

  Such of these letters as came while Carrie was still in the
Seventeenth Street place were read with more interest- though never
delight- than those which arrived after she was installed in her
luxurious quarters at the Wellington. Even there her vanity- or that
self-appreciation which, in its more rabid form, is called vanity- was
not sufficiently cloyed to make these things wearisome. Adulation,
being new in any form, pleased her. Only she was sufficiently wise
to distinguish between her old condition and her new one. She had
not had fame or money before. Now they had come. She had not had
adulation and affectionate propositions before. Now they had come.
Wherefore? She smiled to think that men should suddenly find her so
much more attractive. In the least way it incited her to coolness
and indifference.
  "Do look here," she remarked to Lola. "See what this man says: 'If
you will only deign to grant me one half-hour,'" she repeated, with an
imitation of languor. "The idea. Aren't men silly?"
  "He must have lots of money, the way he talks," observed Lola.
  "That's what they all say," said Carrie, innocently.
  "Why don't you see him," suggested Lola, "and hear what he has to
say?"
  "Indeed I won't," said Carrie. "I know what he'd say. I don't want
to meet anybody that way."
  Lola looked at her with big, merry eyes.
  "He couldn't hurt you," she returned. "You might have some fun
with him."
  Carrie shook her head.
  "You're awfully queer," returned the little, blue-eyed soldier.
  Thus crowded fortune. For this whole week, though her large salary
had not yet arrived, it was as if the world understood and trusted
her. Without money- or the requisite sum, at least- she enjoyed the
luxuries which money could buy. For her the doors of fine places
seemed to open quite without the asking. These palatial chambers,
how marvellously they came to her. The elegant apartments of Mrs.
Vance in the Chelsea- these were hers. Men sent flowers, love notes,
offers of fortune. And still her dreams ran riot. The one hundred
and fifty! the one hundred and fifty! What a door to an Aladdin's cave
it seemed to be. Each day, her head almost turned by developments, her
fancies of what her fortune must be, with ample money, grew and
multiplied. She conceived of delights which were not- saw lights of
joy that never were on land or sea. Then, at last, after a world of
anticipation, came her first installment of one hundred and fifty
dollars.
  It was paid to her in greenbacks- three twenties, six tens, and
six fives. Thus collected it made a very convenient roll. It was
accompanied by a smile and a salutation from the cashier who paid it.
  "Ah, yes," said the latter, when she applied; "Miss Madenda- one
hundred and fifty dollars. Quite a success the show seems to have
made."
  "Yes, indeed," returned Carrie.
  Right after came one of the insignificant members of the company,
and she heard the changed tone of address.
  "How much?" said the same cashier, sharply. One, such as she had
only recently been, was waiting for her modest salary. It took her
back to the few weeks in which she had collected- or rather had
received- almost with the air of a domestic, four-fifty per week
from a lordly foreman in a shoe factory- a man who, in distributing
the envelopes, had the manner of a prince doling out favours to a
servile group of petitioners. She knew that out in Chicago this very
day the same factory chamber was full of poor homely-clad girls
working in long lines at clattering machines; that at noon they
would eat a miserable lunch in a half-hour; that Saturday they would
gather, as they had when she was one of them, and accept the small pay
for work a hundred times harder than she was now doing. Oh, it was
so easy now! The world was so rosy and bright. She felt so thrilled
that she must needs walk back to the hotel to think, wondering what
she should do.
  It does not take money long to make plain its impotence, providing
the desires are in the realm of affection. With her one hundred and
fifty in hand, Carrie could think of nothing particularly to do. In
itself, as a tangible, apparent thing which she could touch and look
upon, it was a diverting thing for a few days, but this soon passed.
Her hotel bill did not require its use. Her clothes had for some
time been wholly satisfactory. Another day or two and she would
receive another hundred and fifty. It began to appear as if this
were not so startlingly necessary to maintain her present state. If
she wanted to do anything better or move higher she must have more-
a great deal more.
  Now a critic called to get up one of those tinsel interviews which
shine with clever observations, show up the wit of critics, display
the folly of celebrities, and divert the public. He liked Carrie,
and said so, publicly- adding, however, that she was merely pretty,
good-natured, and lucky. This cut like a knife. The "Herald,"
getting up an entertainment for the benefit of its free ice fund,
did her the honour to beg her to appear along with celebrities for
nothing. She was visited by a young author, who had a play which he
thought she could produce. Alas, she could not judge. It hurt her to
think it. Then she found she must put her money in the bank for
safety, and so moving, finally reached the place where it struck her
that the door to life's perfect enjoyment was not open.
  Gradually she began to think it was because it was summer. Nothing
was going on much save such entertainments as the one in which she was
star. Fifth Avenue was boarded up where the rich had deserted their
mansions. Madison Avenue was little better. Broadway was full of
loafing thespians in search of next season engagements. The whole city
was quiet and her nights were taken up with her work. Hence the
feeling that there was little to do.
  "I don't know," she said to Lola one day, sitting at one of the
windows which looked down into Broadway, "I get lonely; don't you?"
  "No," said Lola, "not very often. You won't go anywhere. That's
what's the matter with you."
  "Where can I go?"
  "Why, there're lots of places," returned Lola, who was thinking of
her own lightsome tourneys with the gay youths. "You won't go with
anybody."
  "I don't want to go with these people who write to me. I know what
kind they are."
  "You oughtn't to be lonely," said Lola, thinking of Carrie's
success. "There're lots would give their ears to be in your shoes."
  Carrie looked out again at the passing crowd.
  "I don't know," she said.
  Unconsciously her idle hands were beginning to weary.
                       Chapter XLV.
                 CURIOUS SHIFTS OF THE POOR

  The gloomy Hurstwood, sitting in his cheap hotel, where he had taken
refuge with seventy dollars- the price of his furniture- between him
and nothing, saw a hot summer out and a cool fall in, reading. He
was not wholly indifferent to the fact that his money was slipping
away. As fifty cents after fifty cents were paid out for a day's
lodging he became uneasy, and finally took a cheaper room- thirty-five
cents a day- to make his money last longer. Frequently he saw
notices of Carrie. Her picture was in the "World" once or twice, and
an old "Herald" he found in a chair informed him that she had recently
appeared with some others at a benefit for something or other. He read
these things with mingled feelings. Each one seemed to put her farther
and farther away into a realm which became more imposing as it receded
from him. On the bill-boards, too, he saw a pretty poster, showing her
as the Quaker Maid, demure and dainty. More than once he stopped and
looked at these, gazing at the pretty face in a sullen sort of way.
His clothes were shabby, and he presented a marked contrast to all
that she now seemed to be.
  Somehow, so long as he knew she was at the Casino, though he had
never any intention of going near her, there was a subconscious
comfort for him- he was not quite alone. The show seemed such a
fixture that, after a month or two, he began to take it for granted
that it was still running. In September it went on the road and he did
not notice it. When all but twenty dollars of his money was gone, he
moved to a fifteen-cent lodging-house in the Bowery, where there was a
bare lounging-room filled with tables and benches as well as some
chairs. Here his preference was to close his eyes and dream of other
days, a habit which grew upon him. It was not sleep at first, but a
mental hearkening back to scenes and incidents in his Chicago life. As
the present became darker, the past grew brighter, and all that
concerned it stood in relief.
  He was unconscious of just how much this habit had hold of him until
one day he found his lips repeating an old answer he had made to one
of his friends. They were in Fitzgerald and Moy's. It was as if he
stood in the door of his elegant little office, comfortably dressed,
talking to Sagar Morrison about the value of South Chicago real estate
in which the latter was about to invest.
  "How would you like to come in on that with me?" he heard Morrison
say.
  "Not me," he answered, just as he had years before. "I have my hands
full now."
  The movement of his lips aroused him. He wondered whether he had
really spoken. The next time he noticed anything of the sort he did
talk.
  "Why don't you jump, you bloody fool?" he was saying. "Jump!"
  It was a funny English story he was telling to a company of
actors, Even as his voice recalled him, he was smiling. A crusty old
codger, sitting near by seemed disturbed; at least, he stared in a
most pointed way. Hurstwood straightened up. The humour of the
memory fled in an instant and he felt ashamed. For relief, he left his
chair and strolled out into the streets.
  One day, looking down the ad. columns of the "Evening World," he saw
where a new play was at the Casino. Instantly, he came to a mental
halt. Carrie had gone! He remembered seeing a poster of her only
yesterday, but no doubt it was one left uncovered by the new signs.
Curiously, this fact shook him up. He had almost to admit that somehow
he was depending upon her being in the city. Now she was gone. He
wondered how this important fact had skipped him. Goodness knows
when she would be back now. Impelled by a nervous fear, he rose and
went into the dingy hall, where he counted his remaining money,
unseen. There were but ten dollars in all.
  He wondered how all these other lodging-house people around him
got along. They didn't seem to do anything. Perhaps they begged-
unquestionably they did. Many was the dime he had given to such as
they in his day. He had seen other men asking for money on the
streets. Maybe he could get some that way. There was horror in this
thought.
  Sitting in the lodging-house room, he came to his last fifty
cents. He had saved and counted until his health was affected. His
stoutness had gone. With it, even the semblance of a fit in his
clothes. Now he decided he must do something, and, walking about,
saw another day go by, bringing him down to his last twenty cents- not
enough to eat for the morrow.
  Summoning all his courage, he crossed to Broadway and up to the
Broadway Central hotel. Within a block he halted, undecided. A big,
heavy-faced porter was standing at one of the side entrances,
looking out. Hurstwood purposed to appeal to him. Walking straight up,
he was upon him before he could turn away.
  "My friend," he said, recognising even in his plight the man's
inferiority, "is there anything about this hotel that I could get to
do?"
  The porter stared at him the while he continued to talk.
  "I'm out of work and out of money and I've got to get something-
it doesn't matter what. I don't care to talk about what I've been, but
if you'd tell me how to get something to do, I'd be much obliged to
you. It wouldn't matter if it only lasted a few days just now. I've
got to have something."
  The porter still gazed, trying to look indifferent. Then, seeing
that Hurstwood was about to go on, he said:
  "I've nothing to do with it. You'll have to ask inside."
  Curiously, this stirred Hurstwood to further effort.
  "I thought you might tell me."
  The fellow shook his head irritably.
  Inside went the ex-manager and straight to an office off the clerk's
desk. One of the managers of the hotel happened to be there. Hurstwood
looked him straight in the eye.
  "Could you give me something to do for a few days?" he said. "I'm in
a position where I have to get something at once."
  The comfortable manager looked at him, as much as to say: "Well, I
should judge so."
  "I came here," explained Hurstwood, nervously, "because I've been
a manager myself in my day. I've had bad luck in a way, but I'm not
here to tell you that. I want something to do, if only for a week."
  The man imagined he saw a feverish gleam in the applicant's eye.
  "What hotel did you manage?" he inquired.
  "It wasn't a hotel," said Hurstwood. "I was manager of Fitzgerald
and Moy's place in Chicago for fifteen years."
  "Is that so?" said the hotel man. "How did you come to get out of
that?"
  The figure of Hurstwood was rather surprising in contrast to the
fact.
  "Well, by foolishness of my own. It isn't anything to talk about
now. You could find out if you wanted to. I'm 'broke' now and, if
you will believe me, I haven't eaten anything to-day."
  The hotel man was slightly interested in this story. He could hardly
tell what to do with such a figure, and yet Hurstwood's earnestness
made him wish to do something.
  "Call Olsen," he said, turning to the clerk.
  In reply to a bell and a disappearing hall-boy, Olsen, the head
porter, appeared.
  "Olsen," said the manager, "is there anything downstairs you could
find for this man to do? I'd like to give him something."
  "I don't know, sir," said Olsen. "We have about all the help we
need. I think I could find something, sir, though, if you like."
  "Do. Take him to the kitchen and tell Wilson to give him something
to eat."
  "All right, sir," said Olsen.
  Hurstwood followed. Out of the manager's sight, the head porter's
manner changed.
  "I don't know what the devil there is to do," he observed.
  Hurstwood said nothing. To him the big trunk hustler was a subject
for private contempt.
  "You're to give this man something to eat," he observed to the cook.
  The latter looked Hurstwood over, and seeing something keen and
intellectual in his eyes, said:
  "Well, sit down over there."
  Thus was Hurstwood installed in the Broadway Central, but not for
long. He was in no shape or mood to do the scrub work that exists
about the foundation of every hotel. Nothing better offering, he was
set to aid the fireman, to work about the basement, to do anything and
everything that might offer. Porters, cooks, firemen, clerks- all were
over him. Moreover his appearance did not please these individuals-
his temper was too lonely- and they made it disagreeable for him.
  With the stolidity and indifference of despair, however, he
endured it all, sleeping in an attic at the roof of the house,
eating what the cook gave him, accepting a few dollars a week, which
he tried to save. His constitution was in no shape to endure.
  One day the following February he was sent on an errand to a large
coal company's office. It had been snowing and thawing and the streets
were sloppy. He soaked his shoes in his progress and came back feeling
dull and weary. All the next day he felt unusually depressed and sat
about as much as possible, to the irritation of those who admired
energy in others.
  In the afternoon some boxes were to be moved to make room for new
culinary supplies. He was ordered to handle a truck. Encountering a
big box, he could not lift it.
  "What's the matter there?" said the head porter. "Can't you handle
it?"
  He was straining hard to lift it, but now he quit.
  "No," he said, weakly.
  The man looked at him and saw that he was deathly pale.
  "Not sick, are you?" he asked.
  "I think I am," returned Hurstwood.
  "Well, you'd better go sit down, then."
  This he did, but soon grew rapidly worse. It seemed all he could
do to crawl to his room, where he remained for a day.
  "That man Wheeler's sick," reported one of the lackeys to the
night clerk.
  "What's the matter with him?"
  "I don't know. He's got a high fever."
  The hotel physician looked at him.
  "Better send him to Bellevue," he recommended. "He's got pneumonia."
  Accordingly, he was carted away.
  In three weeks the worst was over, but it was nearly the first of
May before his strength permitted him to be turned out. Then he was
discharged.
  No more weakly looking object ever strolled out into the spring
sunshine than the once hale, lusty manager. All his corpulency had
fled. His face was thin and pale, his hands white, his body flabby.
Clothes and all, he weighed but one hundred and thirty-five pounds.
Some old garments had been given him- a cheap brown coat and misfit
pair of trousers. Also some change and advice. He was told to apply to
the charities.
  Again he resorted to the Bowery lodging-house, brooding over where
to look. From this it was but a step to beggary.
  "What can a man do?" he said. "I can't starve."
  His first application was in sunny Second Avenue. A well-dressed man
came leisurely strolling toward him out of Stuyvesant Park.
Hurstwood nerved himself and sidled near.
  "Would you mind giving me ten cents?" he said, directly. "I'm in a
position where I must ask someone."
  The man scarcely looked at him, but fished in his vest pocket and
took out a dime.
  "There you are," he said.
  "Much obliged," said Hurstwood, softly, but the other paid no more
attention to him.
  Satisfied with his success and yet ashamed of his situation, he
decided that he would only ask for twenty-five cents more, since
that would be sufficient. He strolled about sizing up people, but it
was long before just the right face and situation arrived. When he
asked, he was refused. Shocked by this result, he took an hour to
recover and then asked again. This time a nickel was given him. By the
most watchful effort he did get twenty cents more, but it was painful.
  The next day he resorted to the same effort, experiencing a
variety of rebuffs and one or two generous receptions. At last it
crossed his mind that there was a science of faces, and that a man
could pick the liberal countenance if he tried.
  It was no pleasure to him, however, this stopping of passers-by.
He saw one man taken up for it and now troubled lest he should be
arrested. Nevertheless, he went on, vaguely anticipating that
indefinite something which is always better.
  It was with a sense of satisfaction, then, that he saw announced one
morning the return of the Casino Company, "with Miss Carrie
Madenda." He had thought of her often enough in days past. How
successful she was- how much money she must have! Even now, however,
it took a severe run of ill-luck to decide him to appeal to her. He
was truly hungry before he said:
  "I'll ask her. She won't refuse me a few dollars."
  Accordingly, he headed for the Casino one afternoon, passing it
several times in an effort to locate the stage entrance. Then he sat
in Bryant Park, a block away, waiting. "She can't refuse to help me
a little," he kept saying to himself.
  Beginning with half-past six, he hovered like a shadow about the
Thirty-ninth Street entrance, pretending always to be a hurrying
pedestrian and yet fearful lest he should miss his object. He was
slightly nervous, too, now that the eventful hour had arrived; but
being weak and hungry, his ability to suffer was modified. At last
he saw that the actors were beginning to arrive, and his nervous
tension increased, until it seemed as if he could not stand much more.
  Once he thought he saw Carrie coming and moved forward, only to
see that he was mistaken.
  "She can't be long, now," he said to himself, half fearing to
encounter her and equally depressed at the thought that she might have
gone in by another way. His stomach was so empty that it ached.
  Individual after individual passed him, nearly all well dressed,
almost all indifferent. He saw coaches rolling by, gentlemen passing
with ladies- the evening's merriment was beginning in this region of
theatres and hotels.
  Suddenly a coach rolled up and the driver jumped down to open the
door. Before Hurstwood could act, two ladies flounced across the broad
walk and disappeared in the stage door. He thought he saw Carrie,
but it was so unexpected, so elegant and far away, he could hardly
tell. He waited a while longer, growing feverish with want, and then
seeing that the stage door no longer opened, and that a merry audience
was arriving, he concluded it must have been Carrie and turned away.
  "Lord," he said, hastening out of the street into which the more
fortunate were pouring, "I've got to get something."
  At that hour, when Broadway is wont to assume its most interesting
aspect, a peculiar individual invariably took his stand at the
corner of Twenty-sixth Street and Broadway- a spot which is also
intersected by Fifth Avenue. This was the hour when the theatres
were just beginning to receive their patrons. Fire signs announcing
the night's amusements blazed on every hand. Cabs and carriages, their
lamps gleaming like yellow eyes, pattered by. Couples and parties of
three and four freely mingled in the common crowd, which poured by
in a thick stream, laughing and jesting. On Fifth Avenue were
loungers- a few wealthy strollers, a gentleman in evening dress with
his lady on his arm, some clubmen passing from one smoking-room to
another. Across the way the great hotels showed a hundred gleaming
windows, their cafes and billiard-rooms filled with a comfortable,
well-dressed, and pleasure-loving throng. All about was the night,
pulsating with the thoughts of pleasure and exhilaration- the city
bent upon finding joy in a thousand different ways.
  This unique individual was no less than an ex-soldier turned
religionist, who, having suffered the whips and privations of our
peculiar social system, had concluded that his duty to the God which
he conceived lay in aiding his fellow-man. The form of aid which he
chose to administer was entirely original with himself. It consisted
of securing a bed for all such homeless wayfarers as should apply to
him at this particular spot, though he had scarcely the wherewithal to
provide a comfortable habitation for himself.
  Taking his place amid this lightsome atmosphere, he would stand, his
stocky figure cloaked in a great cape overcoat, his head protected
by a broad slouch hat, awaiting the applicants who had in various ways
learned the nature of his charity. For a while he would stand alone,
gazing like any idler upon an ever-fascinating scene. On the evening
in question, a policeman passing saluted him as "captain," in a
friendly way. An urchin who had frequently seen him before, stopped to
gaze. All others took him for nothing out of the ordinary, save in the
matter of dress, and conceived of him as a stranger whistling and
idling for his own amusement.
  As the first half-hour waned, certain characters appeared. Here
and there in the passing crowds one might see, now and then, a
loiterer edging interestedly near. A slouchy figure crossed the
opposite corner and glanced furtively in his direction. Another came
down Fifth Avenue to the corner of Twenty-sixth Street, took a general
survey, and bobbled off again. Two or three noticeable Bowery types
edged along the Fifth Avenue side of Madison Square, but did not
venture over. The soldier, in his cape overcoat, walked a short line
of ten feet at his corner, to and fro, indifferently whistling.
  As nine o'clock approached, some of the hubbub of the earlier hour
passed. The atmosphere of the hotels was not so youthful. The air,
too, was colder. On every hand curious figures were moving- watchers
and peepers, without an imaginary circle, which they seemed afraid
to enter- a dozen in all. Presently, with the arrival of a keener
sense of cold, one figure came forward. It crossed Broadway from out
the shadow of Twenty-sixth Street, and, in a halting, circuitous
way, arrived close to the waiting figure. There was something
shamefaced or diffident about the movement, as if the intention were
to conceal any idea of stopping until the very last moment. Then
suddenly, close to the soldier, came the halt.
  The captain looked in recognition, but there was no especial
greeting. The newcomer nodded slightly and murmured something like one
who waits for gifts. The other simply motioned toward the edge of
the walk.
  "Stand over there," he said.
  By this the spell was broken. Even while the soldier resumed his
short, solemn walk, other figures shuffled forward. They did not so
much as greet the leader, but joined the one, sniffling and hitching
and scraping their feet.
  "Cold, ain't it?"
  "I'm glad winter's over."
  "Looks as though it might rain."
  The motley company had increased to ten. One or two knew each
other and conversed. Others stood off a few feet, not wishing to be in
the crowd and yet not counted out. They were peevish, crusty,
silent, eying nothing in particular and moving their feet.
  There would have been talking soon, but the soldier gave them no
chance. Counting sufficient to begin, he came forward.
  "Beds, eh, all of you?"
  There was a general shuffle and murmur of approval.
  "Well, line up here. I'll see what I can do. I haven't a cent
myself."
  They fell into a sort of broken, ragged line. One might see, now,
some of the chief characteristics by contrast. There was a wooden
leg in the line. Hats were all drooping, a group that would ill become
a second-hand Hester Street basement collection. Trousers were all
warped and frayed at the bottom and coats worn and faded. In the glare
of the store lights, some of the faces looked dry and chalky; others
were red with blotches and puffed in the cheeks and under the eyes;
one or two were rawboned and reminded one of railroad hands. A few
spectators came near, drawn by the seemingly conferring group, then
more and more, and quickly there was a pushing, gaping crowd. Some one
in the line began to talk.
  "Silence!" exclaimed the captain. "Now, then, gentlemen, these men
are without beds. They have to have some place to sleep to-night. They
can't lie out in the streets. I need twelve cents to put one of them
to bed. Who will give it to me?"
  No reply.
  "Well, we'll have to wait here, boys, until some one does. Twelve
cents isn't so very much for one man."
  "Here's fifteen," exclaimed a young man, peering forward with
strained eyes. "It's all I can afford."
  "All right. Now I have fifteen. Step out of the line," and seizing
one by the shoulder, the captain marched him off a little way and
stood him up alone.
  Coming back, he resumed his place and began again.
  "I have three cents left. These men must be put to bed somehow.
There are"- counting- "one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight,
nine, ten, eleven, twelve men. Nine cents more will put the next man
to bed; give him a good, comfortable bed for the night. I go right
along and look after that myself. Who will give me nine cents?"
  One of the watchers, this time a middle-aged man, handed him a
five-cent piece.
  "Now, I have eight cents. Four more will give this man a bed.
Come, gentlemen. We are going very slow this evening. You all have
good beds. How about these?"
  "Here you are," remarked a bystander, putting a coin into his hand.
  "That," said the, captain, looking at the coin, "pays for two beds
for two men and gives me five on the next one. Who will give me
seven cents more?"
  "I will," said a voice.
  Coming down Sixth Avenue this evening, Hurstwood chanced to cross
east through Twenty-sixth Street toward Third Avenue. He was wholly
disconsolate in spirit, hungry to what he deemed an almost mortal
extent, weary, and defeated. How should he get at Carrie now? It would
be eleven before the show was over. If she came in a coach, she
would go away in one. He would need to interrupt under most trying
circumstances. Worst of all, he was hungry and weary, and at best a
whole day must intervene, for he had not heart to try again
to-night. He had no food and no bed.
  When he neared Broadway, he noticed the captain's gathering of
wanderers, but thinking it to be the result of a street preacher or
some patent medicine fakir, was about to pass on. However, in crossing
the street toward Madison Square Park, he noticed the line of men
whose beds were already secured, stretching out from the main body
of the crowd. In the glare of the neighbouring electric light he
recognised a type of his own kind- the figures whom he saw about the
streets and in the lodging-houses, drifting in mind and body like
himself. He wondered what it could be and turned back.
  There was the captain curtly pleading as before. He heard with
astonishment and a sense of relief the oft-repeated words: "These
men must have a bed." Before him was the line of unfortunates whose
beds were yet to be had, and seeing a newcomer quietly edge up and
take a position at the end of the line, he decided to do likewise.
What use to contend? He was weary to-night. It was a simple way out of
one difficulty, at least. Tomorrow, maybe, he would do better.
  Back of him, where some of those were whose beds were safe, a
relaxed air was apparent. The strain of uncertainty being removed,
he heard them talking with moderate freedom and some leaning toward
sociability. Politics, religion, the state of the government, some
newspaper sensations, and the more notorious facts the world over,
found mouthpieces and auditors there. Cracked and husky voices
pronounced forcibly upon odd matters. Vague and rambling
observations were made in reply.
  There were squints, and leers, and some dull, ox-like stares from
those who were too dull or too weary to converse.
  Standing tells. Hurstwood became more weary waiting. He thought he
should drop soon and shifted restlessly from one foot to the other. At
last his turn came. The man ahead had been paid for and gone to the
blessed line of success. He was now first, and already the captain was
talking for him.
  "Twelve cents, gentlemen- twelve cents puts this man to bed. He
wouldn't stand here in the cold if he had any place to go."
Hurstwood swallowed something that rose to his throat. Hunger and
weakness had made a coward of him.
  "Here you are," said a stranger, handing money to the captain.
  Now the latter put a kindly hand on the ex-manager's shoulder.
  "Line up over there," he said.
  Once there, Hurstwood breathed easier. He felt as if the world
were not quite so bad with such a good man in it. Others seemed to
feel like himself about this.
  "Captain's a great feller, ain't he?" said the man ahead- a
little, woe-begone, helpless-looking sort of individual, who looked as
though he had ever been the sport and care of fortune.
  "Yes," said Hurstwood, indifferently.
  "Hub! there's a lot back there yet," said a man farther up,
leaning out and looking back at the applicants for whom the captain
was pleading.
  "Yes. Must be over a hundred to-night," said another.
  "Look at the guy in the cab," observed a third.
  A cab had stopped. Some gentleman in evening dress reached out a
bill to the captain, who took it with simple thanks and turned away to
his line. There was a general craning of necks as the jewel in the
white shirt front sparkled and the cab moved off. Even the crowd gaped
in awe.
  "That fixes up nine men for the night," said the captain, counting
out as many of the line near him. "Line up over there. Now, then,
there are only seven. I need twelve cents."
  Money came slowly. In the course of time the crowd thinned out to
a meagre handful. Fifth Avenue, save for an occasional cab or foot
passenger, was bare. Broadway was thinly peopled with pedestrians.
Only now and then a stranger passing noticed the small group, handed
out a coin, and went away, unheeding.
  The captain remained stolid and determined. He talked on, very
slowly, uttering the fewest words and with a certain assurance, as
though he could not fail.
  "Come; I can't stay out here all night. These men are getting
tired and cold. Some one give me four cents."
  There came a time when he said nothing at all. Money was handed him,
and for each twelve cents he singled out a man and put him in the
other line. Then he walked up and down as before, looking at the
ground.
  The theatres let out. Fire signs disappeared. A clock struck eleven.
Another half-hour and he was down to the last two men.
  "Come, now," he exclaimed to several curious observers; "eighteen
cents will fix us all up for the night. Eighteen cents. I have six.
Somebody give me the money. Remember, I have to go over to Brooklyn
yet to-night. Before that I have to take these men down and put them
to bed. Eighteen cents."
  No one responded. He walked to and fro, looking down for several
minutes, occasionally saying softly: "Eighteen cents." It seemed as if
this paltry sum would delay the desired culmination longer than all
the rest had. Hurstwood, buoyed up slightly by the long line of
which he was a part, refrained with an effort from groaning, he was so
weak.
  At last a lady in opera cape and rustling skirts came down Fifth
Avenue, accompanied by her escort. Hurstwood gazed wearily, reminded
by her both of Carrie in her new world and of the time when he had
escorted his own wife in like manner.
  While he was gazing, she turned and, looking at the remarkable
company, sent her escort over. He came, holding a bill in his fingers,
all elegant and graceful.
  "Here you are," he said.
  "Thanks," said the captain, turning to the two remaining applicants.
"Now we have some for to-morrow night," he added.
  Therewith he lined up the last two and proceeded to the head,
counting as he went.
  "One hundred and thirty-seven," he announced. "Now, boys, line up.
Right dress there. We won't be much longer about this. Steady, now."
  He placed himself at the head and called out "Forward." Hurstwood
moved with the line. Across Fifth Avenue, through Madison Square by
the winding paths, east on Twenty-third Street, and down Third
Avenue wound the long, serpentine company. Midnight pedestrians and
loiterers stopped and stared as the company passed. Chatting
policemen, at various corners, stared indifferently or nodded to the
leader, whom they had seen before. On Third Avenue they marched, a
seemingly weary way, to Eighth Street, where there was a
lodging-house, closed, apparently, for the night. They were
expected, however.
  Outside in the gloom they stood, while the leader parleyed within.
Then doors swung open and they were invited in with a "Steady, now."
  Some one was at the head showing rooms, so that there was no delay
for keys. Toiling up the creaky stairs, Hurstwood looked back and
saw the captain, watching; the last one of the line being included
in his broad solicitude. Then he gathered his cloak about him and
strolled out into the night.
  "I can't stand much of this," said Hurstwood, whose legs ached him
painfully, as he sat down upon the miserable bunk in the small,
lightless chamber allotted to him. "I've got to eat, or I'll die."
                       Chapter XLVI.
                  STIRRING TROUBLED WATERS

  Playing in New York one evening on this her return, Carrie was
putting the finishing touches to her toilet before leaving for the
night, when a commotion near the stage door caught her ear. It
included a familiar voice.
  "Never mind, now. I want to see Miss Madenda."
  "You'll have to send in your card."
  "Oh, come off! Here."
  A half-dollar was passed over, and now a knock came at her
dressing-room door.
  Carrie opened it.
  "Well, well!" said Drouet. "I do swear! Why, how are you? I knew
that was you the moment I saw you."
  Carrie fell back a pace, expecting a most embarrassing conversation.
  "Aren't you going to shake hands with me? Well, you're a dandy!
That's all right, shake hands."
  Carrie put out her hand, smiling, if for nothing more than the man's
exuberant good-nature. Though older, he was but slightly changed.
The same fine clothes, the same stocky body, the same rosy
countenance.
  "That fellow at the door there didn't want to let me in, until I
paid him. I knew it was you, all right. Say, you've got a great
show. You do your part fine. I knew you would. I just happened to be
passing tonight and thought I'd drop in for a few minutes. I saw
your name on the programme, but I didn't remember it until you came on
the stage. Then it struck me all at once. Say, you could have
knocked me down with a feather. That's the same name you used out
there in Chicago, isn't it?"
  "Yes," answered Carrie, mildly, overwhelmed by the man's assurance.
  "I knew it was, the moment I saw you. Well, how have you been,
anyhow?"
  "Oh, very well," said Carrie, lingering in her dressing-room. She
was rather dazed by the assault. "How have you been?"
  "Me? Oh, fine. I'm here now."
  "Is that so?" said Carrie.
  "Yes. I've been here for six months. I've got charge of a branch
here."
  "How nice!"
  "Well, when did you go on the stage, anyhow?" inquired Drouet.
  "About three years ago," said Carrie.
  "You don't say so! Well, sir, this is the first I've heard of it.
I knew you would, though. I always said you could act- didn't I?"
  Carrie smiled.
  "Yes, you did," she said.
  "Well, you do look great," he said. "I never saw anybody improve so.
You're taller, aren't you?"
  "Me? Oh, a little, maybe."
  He gazed at her dress, then at her hair, where a becoming hat was
set jauntily, then into her eyes, which she took all occasion to
avert. Evidently he expected to restore their old friendship at once
and without modification.
  "Well," he said, seeing her gather up her purse, handkerchief, and
the like, preparatory to departing, "I want you to come out to
dinner with me; won't you? I've got a friend out here."
  "Oh, I can't," said Carrie. "Not to-night. I have an early
engagement to-morrow."
  "Aw, let the engagement go. Come on. I can get rid of him. I want to
have a good talk with you."
  "No, no," said Carrie; "I can't. You mustn't ask me any more. I
don't care for a late dinner."
  "Well, come on and have a talk, then, anyhow."
  "Not to-night," she said, shaking her head. "We'll have a talk
some other time."
  As a result of this, she noticed a shade of thought pass over his
face, as if he were beginning to realise that things were changed.
Good-nature dictated something better than this for one who had always
liked her.
  "You come around to the hotel to-morrow," she said, as sort of
penance for error. "You can take dinner with me."
  "All right," said Drouet, brightening. "Where are you stopping?"
  "At the Waldorf," she answered, mentioning the fashionable
hostelry then but newly erected.
  "What time?"
  "Well, come at three," said Carrie, pleasantly.
  The next day Drouet called, but it was with no especial delight that
Carrie remembered her appointment. However, seeing him, handsome as
ever, after his kind, and most genially disposed, her doubts as to
whether the dinner would be disagreeable were swept away. He talked as
volubly as ever.
  "They put on a lot of lugs here, don't they?" was his first remark.
  "Yes; they do," said Carrie.
  Genial egotist that he was, he went at once into a detailed
account of his own career.
  "I'm going to have a business of my own pretty soon," he observed in
one place. "I can get backing for two hundred thousand dollars."
  Carrie listened most good-naturedly.
  "Say," he said, suddenly; "where is Hurstwood now?"
  Carrie flushed a little.
  "He's here in New York, I guess," she said. "I haven't seen him
for some time."
  Drouet mused for a moment. He had not been sure until now that the
ex-manager was not an influential figure in the background. He
imagined not; but this assurance relieved him. It must be that
Carrie had got rid of him- as well she ought, he thought.
  "A man always makes a mistake when he does anything like that," he
observed.
  "Like what?" said Carrie, unwitting of what was coming.
  "Oh, you know," and Drouet waved her intelligence, as it were,
with his hand.
  "No, I don't," she answered. "What do you mean?"
  "Why that affair in Chicago- the time he left."
  "I don't know what you are talking about," said Carrie. Could it
be he would refer so rudely to Hurstwood's flight with her?
  "Oho!" said Drouet, incredulously. "You knew he took ten thousand
dollars with him when he left, didn't you?"
  "What!" said Carrie. "You don't mean to say he stole money, do you?"
  "Why," said Drouet, puzzled at her tone, "you knew that, didn't
you?"
  "Why, no," said Carrie. "Of course I didn't."
  "Well, that's funny," said Drouet. "He did, you know. It was in
all the papers."
  "How much did you say he took?" said Carrie.
  "Ten thousand dollars. I heard he sent most of it back afterwards,
though."
  Carrie looked vacantly at the richly carpeted floor. A new light was
shining upon all the years since her enforced flight. She remembered
now a hundred things that indicated as much. She also imagined that he
took it on her account. Instead of hatred springing up there was a
kind of sorrow generated. Poor fellow! What a thing to have had
hanging over his head all the time.
  At dinner Drouet, warmed up by eating and drinking and softened in
mood, fancied he was winning Carrie to her old-time good-natured
regard for him. He began to imagine it would not be so difficult to
enter into her life again, high as she was. Ah, what a prize! he
thought. How beautiful, how elegant, how famous! In her theatrical and
Waldorf setting, Carrie was to him the all-desirable.
  "Do you remember how nervous you were that night at the Avery?" he
asked.
  Carrie smiled to think of it.
  "I never saw anybody do better than you did then, Cad," he added
ruefully, as he leaned an elbow on the table; "I thought you and I
were going to get along fine those days."
  "You mustn't talk that way," said Carrie, bringing in the least
touch of coldness.
  "Won't you let me tell you-"
  "No," she answered, rising. "Besides, it's time I was getting
ready for the theatre. I'll have to leave you. Come, now."
  "Oh, stay a minute," pleaded Drouet. "You've got plenty of time."
  "No," said Carrie, gently.
  Reluctantly Drouet gave up the bright table and followed. He saw her
to the elevator and, standing there, said:
  "When do I see you again?"
  "Oh, some time, possibly," said Carrie. "I'll be here all summer.
Good-night!"
  The elevator door was open.
  "Good-night!" said Drouet, as she rustled in.
  Then he strolled sadly down the hall, all his old longing revived,
because she was now so far off. He thought himself hardly dealt
with. Carrie, however, had other thoughts.
  That night it was that she passed Hurstwood, waiting at the
Casino, without observing him.
  The next night, walking to the theatre, she encountered him face
to face. He was waiting, more gaunt than ever, determined to see
her, if he had to send in word. At first she did not recognise the
shabby, baggy figure. He frightened her, edging so close, a
seemingly hungry stranger.
  "Carrie," he half whispered, "can I have a few words with you?"
  She turned and recognised him on the instant. If there ever had
lurked any feeling in her heart against him, it deserted her now.
Still, she remembered what Drouet said about his having stolen the
money.
  "Why, George," she said; "what's the matter with you?"
  "I've been sick," he answered. "I've just got out of the hospital.
For God's sake, let me have a little money, will you?"
  "Of course," said Carrie, her lip trembling in a strong effort to
maintain her composure. "But what's the matter with you, anyhow?"
  She was opening her purse, and now pulled out all the bills in it- a
five and two twos.
  "I've been sick, I told you," he said, peevishly, almost resenting
her excessive pity. It came hard to him to receive it from such a
source.
  "Here," she said. "It's all I have with me."
  "All right," he answered, softly. "I'll give it back to you some
day."
  Carrie looked at him, while pedestrians stared at her. She felt
the strain of publicity. So did Hurstwood.
  "Why don't you tell me what's the matter with you?" she asked,
hardly knowing what to do. "Where are you living?"
  "Oh, I've got a room down in the Bowery," he answered. "There's no
use trying to tell you here. I'm all right now."
  He seemed in a way to resent her kindly inquiries- so much better
had fate dealt with her.
  "Better go on in," he said. "I'm much obliged, but I won't bother
you any more."
  She tried to answer, but he turned away and shuffled off toward
the east.
  For days this apparition was a drag on her soul before it began to
wear partially away. Drouet called again, but now he was not even seen
by her. His attentions seemed out of place.
  "I'm out," was her reply to the boy.
  So peculiar, indeed, was her lonely, self-withdrawing temper, that
she was becoming an interesting figure in the public eye- she was so
quiet and reserved.
  Not long after the management decided to transfer the show to
London. A second summer season did not seem to promise well here.
  "How would you like to try subduing London?" asked her manager,
one afternoon.
  "It might be just the other way," said Carrie.
  "I think we'll go in June," he answered.
  In the hurry of departure, Hurstwood was forgotten. Both he and
Drouet were left to discover that she was gone. The latter called
once, and exclaimed at the news. Then he stood in the lobby, chewing
the ends of his moustache. At last he reached a conclusion- the old
days had gone for good.
  "She isn't so much," he said; but in his heart of hearts he did
not believe this.
  Hurstwood shifted by curious means through a long summer and fall. A
small job as janitor of a dance hall helped him for a month.
Begging, sometimes going hungry, sometimes sleeping in the park,
carried him over more days. Resorting to those peculiar charities,
several of which, in the press of hungry search, he accidentally
stumbled upon, did the rest. Toward the dead of winter, Carrie came
back, appearing on Broadway in a new play; but he was not aware of it.
For weeks he wandered about the city, begging, while the fire sign,
announcing her engagement, blazed nightly upon the crowded street of
amusements. Drouet saw it, but did not venture in.
  About this time Ames returned to New York. He had made a little
success in the West, and now opened a laboratory in Wooster Street. Of
course, he encountered Carrie through Mrs. Vance; but there was
nothing responsive between them. He thought she was still united to
Hurstwood, until otherwise informed. Not knowing the facts then, he
did not profess to understand, and refrained from comment.
  With Mrs. Vance, he saw the new play, and expressed himself
accordingly.
  "She ought not to be in comedy," he said. "I think she could do
better than that."
  One afternoon they met at the Vances' accidentally, and began a very
friendly conversation. She could hardly tell why the one-time keen
interest in him was no longer with her. Unquestionably, it was because
at that time he had represented something which she did not have;
but this she did not understand. Success had given her the momentary
feeling that she was now blessed with much of which he would
approve. As a matter of fact, her little newspaper fame was nothing at
all to him. He thought she could have done better, by far.
  "You didn't go into comedy-drama, after all?" he said, remembering
her interest in that form of art.
  "No," she answered; "I haven't, so far."
  He looked at her in such a peculiar way that she realised she had
failed. It moved her to add: "I want to, though."
  "I should think you would," he said. "You have the sort of
disposition that would do well in comedy-drama."
  It surprised her that he should speak of disposition. Was she, then,
so clearly in his mind?
  "Why?" she asked.
  "Well," he said, "I should judge you were rather sympathetic in your
nature."
  Carrie smiled and coloured slightly. He was so innocently frank with
her that she drew nearer in friendship. The old call of the ideal
was sounding.
  "I don't know," she answered, pleased, nevertheless, beyond all
concealment.
  "I saw your play," he remarked. "It's very good."
  "I'm glad you liked it."
  "Very good, indeed," he said, "for a comedy."
  This is all that was said at the time, owing to an interruption, but
later they met again. He was sitting in a corner after dinner, staring
at the floor, when Carrie came up with another of the guests. Hard
work had given his face the look of one who is weary. It was not for
Carrie to know the thing in it which appealed to her.
  "All alone?" she said.
  "I was listening to the music."
  "I'll be back in a moment," said her companion, who saw nothing in
the inventor.
  Now he looked up in her face, for she was standing a moment, while
he sat.
  "Isn't that a pathetic strain?" he inquired, listening.
  "Oh, very," she returned, also catching it, now that her attention
was called.
  "Sit down," he added, offering her the chair beside him.
  They listened a few moments in silence, touched by the same feeling,
only hers reached her through the heart. Music still charmed her as in
the old days.
  "I don't know what it is about music," she started to say, moved
by the inexplicable longings which surged within her; "but it always
makes me feel as if I wanted something- I-"
  "Yes," he replied; "I know how you feel."
  Suddenly he turned to considering the peculiarity of her
disposition, expressing her feelings so frankly.
  "You ought not to be melancholy," he said.
  He thought a while, and then went off into a seemingly alien
observation which, however, accorded with their feelings.
  "The world is full of desirable situations, but, unfortunately, we
can occupy but one at a time. It doesn't do us any good to wring our
hands over the far-off things."
  The music ceased and he arose, taking a standing position before
her, as if to rest himself.
  "Why don't you get into some good, strong comedy-drama?" he said. He
was looking directly at her now, studying her face. Her large,
sympathetic eyes and pain-touched mouth appealed to him as proofs of
his judgment.
  "Perhaps I shall," she returned.
  "That's your field," he added.
  "Do you think so?"
  "Yes," he said; "I do. I don't suppose you're aware of it, but there
is something about your eyes and mouth which fits you for that sort of
work."
  Carrie thrilled to be taken so seriously. For the moment, loneliness
deserted her. Here was praise which was keen and analytical.
  "It's in your eyes and mouth," he went on abstractedly. "I
remember thinking, the first time I saw you, that there was
something peculiar about your mouth. I thought you were about to cry."
  "How odd," said Carrie, warm with delight. This was what her heart
craved.
  "Then I noticed that that was your natural look, and to-night I
saw it again. There's a shadow about your eyes, too, which gives
your face much this same character. It's in the depth of them, I
think."
  Carrie looked straight into his face, wholly aroused.
  "You probably are not aware of it," he added.
  She looked away, pleased that he should speak thus, longing to be
equal to this feeling written upon her countenance. It unlocked the
door to a new desire.
  She had cause to ponder over this until they met again- several
weeks or more. It showed her she was drifting away from the old
ideal which had filled her in the dressing-rooms of the Avery stage
and thereafter, for a long time. Why had she lost it?
  "I know why you should be a success," he said, another time, "if you
had a more dramatic part. I've studied it out-"
  "What is it?" said Carrie.
  "Well," he said, as one pleased with a puzzle, "the expression in
your face is one that comes out in different things. You get the
same thing in a pathetic song, or any picture which moves you
deeply. It's a thing the world likes to see, because it's a natural
expression of its longing."
  Carrie gazed without exactly getting the import of what he meant.
  "The world is always struggling to express itself," he went on.
"Most people are not capable of voicing their feelings. They depend
upon others. That is what genius is for. One man expresses their
desires for them in music; another one in poetry; another one in a
play. Sometimes nature does it in a face- it makes the face
representative of all desire. That's what has happened in your case."
  He looked at her with so much of the import of the thing in his eyes
that she caught it. At least, she got the idea that her look was
something which represented the world's longing. She took it to
heart as a creditable thing, until he added:
  "That puts a burden of duty on you. It so happens that you have this
thing. It is no credit to you- that is, I mean, you might not have had
it. You paid nothing to get it. But now that you have it, you must
do something with it."
  "What?" asked Carrie.
  "I should say, turn to the dramatic field. You have so much sympathy
and such a melodious voice. Make them valuable to others. It will make
your powers endure."
  Carrie did not understand this last. All her comedy success was
little or nothing.
  "What do you mean?" she asked.
  "Why, just this. You have this quality in your eyes and mouth and in
your nature. You can lose it, you know. If you turn away from it and
live to satisfy yourself alone, it will go fast enough. The look
will leave your eyes. Your mouth will change. Your power to act will
disappear. You may think they won't, but they will. Nature takes
care of that."
  He was so interested in forwarding all good causes that he sometimes
became enthusiastic, giving vent to these preachments. Something in
Carrie appealed to him. He wanted to stir her up.
  "I know," she said, absently, feeling slightly guilty of neglect.
  "If I were you," he said, "I'd change."
  The effect of this was like roiling helpless waters. Carrie troubled
over it in her rocking-chair for days.
  "I don't believe I'll stay in comedy so very much longer," she
eventually remarked to Lola.
  "Oh, why not?" said the latter.
  "I think," she said, "I can do better in a serious play."
  "What put that idea in your head?"
  "Oh, nothing," she answered; "I've always thought so."
  Still, she did nothing- grieving. It was a long way to this better
thing- or seemed so- and comfort was about her; hence the inactivity
and longing.
                      Chapter XLVII.
          THE WAY OF THE BEATEN: A HARP IN THE WIND

  In the city, at that time, there were a number of charities
similar in nature to that of the captain's, which Hurstwood now
patronised in a like unfortunate way. One was a convent
mission-house of the Sisters of Mercy in Fifteenth Street- a row of
red brick family dwellings, before the door of which hung a plain
wooden contribution box, on which was painted the statement that every
noon a meal was given free to all those who might apply and ask for
aid. This simple announcement was modest in the extreme, covering,
as it did, charity so broad. Institutions and charities are so large
and so numerous in New York that such things as this are not often
noticed by the more comfortably situated. But to one whose mind is
upon the matter, they grow exceedingly under inspection. Unless one
were looking up this matter in particular, he could have stood at
Sixth Avenue and Fifteenth Street for days around the noon hour and
never have noticed that out of the vast crowd that surged along that
busy thoroughfare there turned out, every few seconds, some
weather-beaten, heavy-footed specimen of humanity, gaunt in
countenance and dilapidated in the matter of clothes. The fact is none
the less true, however, and the colder the day the more apparent it
became. Space and a lack of culinary room in the mission-house,
compelled an arrangement which permitted of only twenty-five or thirty
eating at one time, so that a line had to be formed outside and an
orderly entrance effected. This caused a daily spectacle which,
however, had become so common by repetition during a number of years
that now nothing was thought of it. The men waited patiently, like
cattle, in the coldest weather- waited for several hours before they
could be admitted. No questions were asked and no service rendered.
They ate and went away again, some of them returning regularly day
after day the winter through.
  A big, motherly looking woman invariably stood guard at the door
during the entire operation and counted the admissible number. The men
moved up in solemn order. There was no haste and no eagerness
displayed. It was almost a dumb procession. In the bitterest weather
this line was to be found here. Under an icy wind there was a
prodigious slapping of hands and a dancing of feet. Fingers and the
features of the face looked as if severely nipped by the cold. A study
of these men in broad light proved them to be nearly all of a type.
They belonged to the class that sit on the park benches during the
endurable days and sleep upon them during the summer nights. They
frequent the Bowery and those down-at-the-heels East Side streets
where poor clothes and shrunken features are not singled out as
curious. They are the men who are in the lodging-house sitting-rooms
during bleak and bitter weather and who swarm about the cheaper
shelters which only open at six in a number of the lower East Side
streets. Miserable food, ill-timed and greedily eaten, had played
havoc with bone and muscle. They were all pale, flabby, sunken-eyed,
hollow-chested, with eyes that glinted and shone and lips that were
a sickly red by contrast. Their hair was but half attended to, their
ears anaemic in hue, and their shoes broken in leather and run down at
heel and toe. They were of the class which simply floats and drifts,
every wave of people washing up one, as breakers do driftwood upon a
stormy shore.
  For nearly a quarter of a century, in another section of the city,
Fleischmann, the baker, had given a loaf of bread to any one who would
come for it to the side door of his restaurant at the corner of
Broadway and Tenth Street, at midnight. Every night during twenty
years about three hundred men had formed in line and at the
appointed time marched past the doorway, picked their loaf from a
great box placed just outside, and vanished again into the night. From
the beginning to the present time there had been little change in
the character or number of these men. There were two or three
figures that had grown familiar to those who had seen this little
procession pass year after year. Two of them had missed scarcely a
night in fifteen years. There were about forty, more or less,
regular callers. The remainder of the line was formed of strangers. In
times of panic and unusual hardships there were seldom more than three
hundred. In times of prosperity, when little is heard of the
unemployed, there were seldom less. The same number, winter and
summer, in storm or calm, in good times and bad, held this
melancholy midnight rendezvous at Fleischmann's bread box.
  At both of these two charities, during the severe winter which was
now on, Hurstwood was a frequent visitor. On one occasion it was
peculiarly cold, and finding no comfort in begging about the
streets, he waited until noon before seeking this free offering to the
poor. Already, at eleven o'clock of this morning, several such as he
had shambled forward out of Sixth Avenue, their thin clothes
flapping and fluttering in the wind. They leaned against the iron
railing which protects the walls of the Ninth Regiment Armory, which
fronts upon that section of Fifteenth Street, having come early in
order to be first in. Having an hour to wait, they at first lingered
at a respectful distance; but others coming up, they moved closer in
order to protect their right of precedence. To this collection
Hurstwood came up from the west out of Seventh Avenue and stopped
close to the door, nearer than all the others. Those who had been
waiting before him, but farther away, now drew near, and by a
certain stolidity of demeanour, no words being spoken, indicated
that they were first.
  Seeing the opposition to his action, he looked sullenly along the
line, then moved out, taking his place at the foot. When order had
been restored, the animal feeling of opposition relaxed.
  "Must be pretty near noon," ventured one.
  "It is," said another. "I've been waiting nearly an hour."
  "Gee, but it's cold!"
  They peered eagerly at the door, where all must enter. A grocery man
drove up and carried in several baskets of eatables. This started some
words upon grocery men and the cost of food in general.
  "I see meat's gone up," said one.
  "If there wuz war, it would help this country a lot."
  The line was growing rapidly. Already there were fifty or more,
and those at the head, by their demeanour, evidently congratulated
themselves upon not having so long to wait as those at the foot. There
was much jerking of heads, and looking down the line.
  "It don't matter how near you get to the front, so long as you're in
the first twenty-five," commented one of the first twenty-five. "You
all go in together."
  "Humph!" ejaculated Hurstwood, who bad been so sturdily displaced.
  "This here Single Tax is the thing," said another. "There ain't
going to be no order till it comes."
  For the most part there was silence; gaunt men shuffling,
glancing, and beating their arms.
  At last the door opened and the motherly-looking sister appeared.
She only looked an order. Slowly the line moved up and, one by one,
passed in, until twenty-five were counted. Then she interposed a stout
arm, and the line halted, with six men on the steps. Of these the
ex-manager was one. Waiting thus, some talked, some ejaculated
concerning the misery of it; some brooded, as did Hurstwood. At last
he was admitted, and, having eaten, came away, almost angered
because of his pains in getting it.
  At eleven o'clock of another evening, perhaps two weeks later, he
was at the midnight offering of a loaf- waiting patiently. It had been
an unfortunate day with him, but now he took his fate with a touch
of philosophy. If he could secure no supper, or was hungry late in the
evening, here was a place he could come. A few minutes before
twelve, a great box of bread was pushed out, and exactly on the hour a
portly, round-faced German took position by it, calling "Ready." The
whole line at once moved forward, each taking his loaf in turn and
going his separate way. On this occasion, the ex-manager ate his as he
went, plodding the dark streets in silence to his bed.
  By January he had about concluded that the game was up with him.
Life had always seemed a precious thing, but now constant want and
weakened vitality had made the charms of earth rather dull and
inconspicuous. Several times, when fortune pressed most harshly, he
thought he would end his troubles; but with a change of weather, or
the arrival of a quarter or a dime, his mood would change, and he
would wait. Each day he would find some old paper lying about and look
into it, to see if there was any trace of Carrie, but all summer and
fall he had looked in vain. Then he noticed that his eyes were
beginning to hurt him, and this ailment rapidly increased until, in
the dark chambers of the lodgings he frequented, he did not attempt to
read. Bad and irregular eating was weakening every function of his
body. The one recourse left him was to doze when a place offered and
he could get the money to occupy it.
  He was beginning to find, in his wretched clothing and meagre
state of body, that people took him for a chronic type of bum and
beggar. Police bustled him along, restaurant and lodging-house keepers
turned him out promptly the moment he had his due; pedestrians waved
him off. He found it more and more difficult to get anything from
anybody.
  At last he admitted to himself that the game was up. It was after
a long series of appeals to pedestrians, in which he had been
refused and refused- every one hastening from contact.
  "Give me a little something, will you, mister?" he said to the
last one. "For God's sake, do; I'm starving."
  "Aw, get out," said the man, who happened to be a common type
himself. "You're no good. I'll give you nawthin'."
  Hurstwood put his hands, red from cold, down in his pockets. Tears
came into his eyes.
  "That's right," he said; "I'm no good now. I was all right. I had
money. I'm going to quit this," and, with death in his heart, he
started down toward the Bowery. People had turned on the gas before
and died; why shouldn't he? He remembered a lodging-house where
there were little, close rooms, with gas-jets in them, almost
pre-arranged, he thought, for what he wanted to do, which rented for
fifteen cents. Then he remembered that he had no fifteen cents.
  On the way he met a comfortable-looking gentleman, coming,
clean-shaven, out of a fine barber shop.
  "Would you mind giving me a little something?" he asked this man
boldly.
  The gentleman looked him over and fished for a dime. Nothing but
quarters were in his pocket.
  "Here," he said, handing him one, to be rid of him. "Be off, now."
  Hurstwood moved on, wondering. The sight of the large, bright coin
pleased him a little. He remembered that he was hungry and that he
could get a bed for ten cents. With this, the idea of death passed,
for the time being, out of his mind. It was only when he could get
nothing but insults that death seemed worth while.
  One day, in the middle of the winter, the sharpest spell of the
season set in. It broke grey and cold in the first day, and on the
second snowed. Poor luck pursuing him, he had secured but ten cents by
nightfall, and this he bad spent for food. At evening he found himself
at the Boulevard and Sixty-seventh Street, where he finally turned his
face Bowery-ward. Especially fatigued because of the wandering
propensity which had seized him in the morning, he now half dragged
his wet feet, shuffling the soles upon the sidewalk. An old, thin coat
was turned up about his red ears-his cracked derby hat was pulled down
until it turned them outward. His hands were in his pockets.
  "I'll just go down Broadway," he said to himself.
  When he reached Forty-second Street, the fire signs were already
blazing brightly. Crowds were hastening to dine. Through bright
windows, at every corner, might be seen gay companies in luxuriant
restaurants. There were coaches and crowded cable cars.
  In his weary and hungry state, he should never have come here. The
contrast was too sharp. Even he was recalled keenly to better things.
  "What's the use?" he thought. "It's all up with me. I'll quit this."
  People turned to look after him, so uncouth was his shambling
figure. Several officers followed him with their eyes, to see that
he did not beg of anybody.
  Once he paused in an aimless, incoherent sort of way and looked
through the windows of an imposing restaurant, before which blazed a
fire sign, and through the large, plate windows of which could be seen
the red and gold decorations, the palms, the white napery, and shining
glassware, and, above all, the comfortable crowd. Weak as his mind had
become, his hunger was sharp enough to show the importance of this. He
stopped stock still, his frayed trousers soaking in the slush, and
peered foolishly in.
  "Eat," he mumbled. "That's right, eat. Nobody else wants any."
  Then his voice dropped even lower, and his mind half lost the
fancy it had.
  "It's mighty cold," he said. "Awful cold."
  At Broadway and Thirty-ninth Street was blazing, in incandescent
fire, Carrie's name. "Carrie Madenda," it read, "and the Casino
Company." All the wet, snowy sidewalk was bright with this radiated
fire. It was so bright that it attracted Hurstwood's gaze. He looked
up, and then at a large, gilt-framed poster-board, on which was a fine
lithograph of Carrie, life-size.
  Hurstwood gazed at it a moment, snuffling and hunching one shoulder,
as if something were scratching him. He was so run down, however, that
his mind was not exactly clear.
  "That's you," he said at last, addressing her. "Wasn't good enough
for you, was I? Huh!"
  He lingered, trying to think logically. This was no longer
possible with him.
  "She's got it," he said, incoherently, thinking of money. "Let her
give me some."
  He started around to the side door. Then he forgot what he was going
for and paused, pushing his hands deeper to warm the wrists.
Suddenly it returned. The stage door! That was it.
  He approached that entrance and went in.
  "Well?" said the attendant, staring at him. Seeing him pause, he
went over and shoved him. "Get out of here," he said.
  "I want to see Miss Madenda," he said.
  "You do, eh?" the other said, almost tickled at the spectacle.
"Get out of here," and he shoved him again. Hurstwood had no
strength to resist.
  "I want to see Miss Madenda," he tried to explain, even as he was
being hustled away. "I'm all right. I-"
  The man gave him a last push and closed the door. As he did so,
Hurstwood slipped and fell in the snow. It hurt him, and some vague
sense of shame returned. He began to cry and swear foolishly.
  "God damned dog!" he said. "Damned old cur," wiping the slush from
his worthless coat. "I- I hired such people as you once."
  Now a fierce feeling against Carrie welled up- just one fierce,
angry thought before the whole thing slipped out of his mind.
  "She owes me something to eat," he said. "She owes it to me."
  Hopelessly he turned back into Broadway again and slopped onward and
away, begging, crying, losing track of his thoughts, one after
another, as a mind decayed and disjointed is wont to do.
  It was truly a wintry evening, a few days later, when his one
distinct mental decision was reached. Already, at four o'clock, the
sombre hue of night was thickening the air. A heavy snow was
falling- a fine picking, whipping snow, borne forward by a swift
wind in long, thin lines. The streets were bedded with it- six
inches of cold, soft carpet, churned to a dirty brown by the crush
of teams and the feet of men. Along Broadway men picked their way in
ulsters and umbrellas. Along the Bowery, men slouched through it
with collars and hats pulled over their ears. In the former
thoroughfare business men and travellers were making for comfortable
hotels. In the latter, crowds on cold errands shifted past dingy
stores, in the deep recesses of which lights were already gleaming.
There were early lights in the cable cars, whose usual clatter was
reduced by the mantle about the wheels. The whole city was muffled
by this fast-thickening mantle.
  In her comfortable chambers at the Waldorf, Carrie was reading at
this time "Pere Goriot," which Ames had recommended to her. It was
so strong, and Ames's mere recommendation had so aroused her interest,
that she caught nearly the full sympathetic significance of it. For
the first time, it was being borne in upon her how silly and worthless
had been her earlier reading, as a whole. Becoming wearied, however,
she yawned and came to the window, looking out upon the old winding
procession of carriages rolling up Fifth Avenue.
  "Isn't it bad?" she observed to Lola.
  "Terrible!" said that little lady, joining her. "I hope it snows
enough to go sleigh riding."
  "Oh, dear," said Carrie, with whom the sufferings of Father Goriot
were still keen. "That's all you think of. Aren't you sorry for the
people who haven't anything to-night?"
  "Of course I am," said Lola; "but what can I do? I haven't
anything."
  Carrie smiled.
  "You wouldn't care, if you had," she returned.
  "I would, too," said Lola. "But people never gave me anything when I
was hard up."
  "Isn't it just awful?" said Carrie, studying the winter's storm.
  "Look at that man over there," laughed Lola, who had caught sight of
some one falling down. "How sheepish men look when they fall, don't
they?"
  "We'll have to take a coach to-night," answered Carrie, absently.

  In the lobby of the Imperial, Mr. Charles Drouet was just
arriving, shaking the snow from a very handsome ulster. Bad weather
had driven him home early and stirred his desire for those pleasures
which shut out the snow and gloom of life. A good dinner, the
company of a young woman, and an evening at the theatre were the chief
things for him.
  "Why, hello, Harry!" he said, addressing a lounger in one of the
comfortable lobby chairs. "How are you?"
  "Oh, about six and six," said the other.
  "Rotten weather, isn't it?"
  "Well, I should say," said the other. "I've been just sitting here
thinking where I'd go to-night."
  "Come along with me," said Drouet. "I can introduce you to something
dead swell."
  "Who is it?" said the other.
  "Oh, a couple of girls over here in Fortieth Street. We could have a
dandy time. I was just looking for you."
  "Supposing we get 'em and take 'em out to dinner?"
  "Sure," said Drouet. "Wait'll I go upstairs and change my clothes."
  "Well, I'll be in the barber shop," said the other. "I want to get a
shave."
  "All right," said Drouet, creaking off in his good shoes toward
the elevator. The old butterfly was as light on the wing as ever.
  On an incoming vestibuled Pullman, speeding at forty miles an hour
through the snow of the evening, were three others, all related.
  "First call for dinner in the dining-car," a Pullman servitor was
announcing, as he hastened through the aisle in snow-white apron and
jacket.
  "I don't believe I want to play any more," said the youngest, a
black-haired beauty, turned supercilious by fortune, as she pushed a
euchre hand away from her.
  "Shall we go into dinner?" inquired her husband, who was all that
fine raiment can make.
  "Oh, not yet," she answered. "I don't want to play any more,
though."
  "Jessica," said her mother, who was also a study in what good
clothing can do for age, "push that pin down in your tie- it's
coming up."
  Jessica obeyed, incidentally touching at her lovely hair and looking
at a little jewel-faced watch. Her husband studied her, for beauty,
even cold, is fascinating from one point of view.
  "Well, we won't have much more of this weather," he said. "It only
takes two weeks to get to Rome."
  Mrs. Hurstwood nestled comfortably in her corner and smiled. It
was so nice to be the mother-in-law of a rich young man- one whose
financial state had borne her personal inspection.
  "Do you suppose the boat will sail promptly?" asked Jessica, "if
it keeps up like this?"
  "Oh, yes," answered her husband. "This won't make any difference."
  Passing down the aisle came a very fair-haired banker's son, also of
Chicago, who had long eyed this supercilious beauty. Even now he did
not hesitate to glance at her, and she was conscious of it. With a
specially conjured show of indifference, she turned her pretty face
wholly away. It was not wifely modesty at all. By so much was her
pride satisfied.

  At this moment Hurstwood stood before a dirty four-story building in
a side street quite near the Bowery, whose one-time coat of buff had
been changed by soot and rain. He mingled with a crowd of men- a crowd
which had been, and was still, gathering by degrees.
  It began with the approach of two or three, who hung about the
closed wooden doors and beat their feet to keep them warm. They had on
faded derby hats with dents in them. Their misfit coats were heavy
with melted snow and turned up at the collars. Their trousers were
mere bags, frayed at the bottom and wobbling over big, soppy shoes,
torn at the sides and worn almost to shreds. They made no effort to go
in, but shifted ruefully about, digging their hands deep in their
pockets and leering at the crowd and the increasing lamps. With the
minutes, increased the number. Three were old men with grizzled beards
and sunken eyes, men who were comparatively young but shrunken by
diseases, men who were middle-aged. None were fat. There was a face in
the thick of the collection which was as white as drained veal.
There was another red as brick. Some came with thin, rounded
shoulders, others with wooden legs, still others with frames so lean
that clothes only flapped about them. There were great ears, swollen
noses, thick lips, and, above all, red, blood-shot eyes. Not a normal,
healthy face in the whole mass; not a straight figure; not a
straightforward, steady glance.
  In the drive of the wind and sleet they pushed in on one another.
There were wrists, unprotected by coat or pocket, which were red
with cold. There were ears, half covered by every conceivable
semblance of a hat, which still looked stiff and bitten. In the snow
they shifted, now one foot, now another, almost rocking in unison.
  With the growth of the crowd about the door came a murmur. It was
not conversation, but a running comment directed at any one in
general. It contained oaths and slang phrases.
  "By damn, I wish they'd hurry up."
  "Look at the copper watchin'."
  "Maybe it ain't winter, nuther!"
  "I wisht I was in Sing Sing."
  Now a sharper lash of wind cut down and they huddled closer. It
was an edging, shifting, pushing throng. There was no anger, no
pleading, no threatening words. It was all sullen endurance,
unlightened by either wit or good fellowship.
  A carriage went jingling by with some reclining figure in it. One of
the men nearest the door saw it.
  "Look at the bloke ridin'."
  "He ain't so cold."
  "Eh, eh, eh!" yelled another, the carriage having long since
passed out of hearing.
  Little by little the night crept on. Along the walk a crowd turned
out on its way home. Men and shop-girls went by with quick steps.
The cross-town cars began to be crowded. The gas lamps were blazing,
and every window bloomed ruddy with a steady flame. Still the crowd
hung about the door, unwavering.
  "Ain't they ever goin' to open up?" queried a hoarse voice,
suggestively.
  This seemed to renew the general interest in the closed door, and
many gazed in that direction. They looked at it as dumb brutes look,
as dogs paw and whine and study the knob. They shifted and blinked and
muttered, now a curse, now a comment. Still they waited and still
the snow whirled and cut them with biting flakes. On the old hats
and peaked shoulders it was piling. It gathered in little heaps and
curves and no one brushed it off. In the centre of the crowd the
warmth and steam melted it, and water trickled off hat rims and down
noses, which the owners could not reach to scratch. On the outer rim
the piles remained unmelted. Hurstwood, who could not get in the
centre, stood with head lowered to the weather and bent his form.
  A light appeared through the transom overhead. It sent a thrill of
possibility through the watchers. There was a murmur of recognition.
At last the bars grated inside and the crowd pricked up its ears.
Footsteps shuffled within and it murmured again. Some one called:
"Slow up there, now," and then the door opened. It was push and jam
for a minute, with grim, beast silence to prove its quality, and
then it melted inward, like logs floating, and disappeared. There were
wet hats and wet shoulders, a cold, shrunken, disgruntled mass,
pouring in between bleak walls. It was just six o'clock and there
was supper in every hurrying pedestrian's face. And yet no supper
was provided here- nothing but beds.
  Hurstwood laid down his fifteen cents and crept off with weary steps
to his allotted room. It was a dingy affair- wooden, dusty, hard. A
small gas-jet furnished sufficient light for so rueful a corner.
  "Hm!" he said, clearing his throat and locking the door.
  Now he began leisurely to take off his clothes, but stopped first
with his coat, and tucked it along the crack under the door. His
vest he arranged in the same place. His old wet, cracked hat he laid
softly upon the table. Then he pulled off his shoes and lay down.
  It seemed as if he thought a while, for now he arose and turned
the gas out, standing calmly in the blackness, hidden from view. After
a few moments, in which he reviewed nothing, but merely hesitated,
he turned the gas on again, but applied no match. Even then he stood
there, hidden wholly in that kindness which is night, while the
uprising fumes filled the room. When the odour reached his nostrils,
he quit his attitude and fumbled for the bed.
  "What's the use?" he said weakly, as he stretched himself to rest.

  And now Carrie had attained that which in the beginning seemed
life's object, or at least, such fraction of it as human beings ever
attain of their original desires. She could look about on her gowns
and carriage, her furniture and bank account. Friends there were, as
the world takes it- those who would bow and smile in acknowledgment of
her success. For these she had once craved. Applause there was, and
publicity- once far off, essential things, but now grown trivial and
indifferent. Beauty also- her type of loveliness- and yet she was
lonely. In her rocking-chair she sat, when not otherwise engaged-
singing and dreaming.
  Thus in life there is ever the intellectual and the emotional
nature- the mind that reasons, and the mind that feels. Of one come
the men of action- generals and statesmen; of the other, the poets and
dreamers- artists all.
  As harps in the wind, the latter respond to every breath of fancy,
voicing in their moods all the ebb and flow of the ideal.
  Man has not yet comprehended the dreamer any more than he has the
ideal. For him the laws and morals of the world are unduly severe.
Ever hearkening to the sound of beauty, straining for the flash of its
distant wings, he watches to follow, wearying his feet in
travelling. So watched Carrie, so followed, rocking and singing.
  And it must be remembered that reason had little part in this.
Chicago dawning, she saw the city offering more of loveliness than she
had ever known, and instinctively, by force of her moods alone,
clung to it. In fine raiment and elegant surroundings, men seemed to
be contented. Hence, she drew near these things. Chicago, New York;
Drouet, Hurstwood; the world of fashion and the world of stage-
these were but incidents. Not them, but that which they represented,
she longed for. Time proved the representation false.
  Oh, the tangle of human life! How dimly as yet we see. Here was
Carrie, in the beginning poor, unsophisticated, emotional;
responding with desire to everything most lovely in life, yet
finding herself turned as by a wall. Laws to say: "Be allured, if
you will, by everything lovely, but draw not nigh unless by
righteousness." Convention to say: "You shall not better your
situation save by honest labour." If honest labour be unremunerative
and difficult to endure; if it be the long, long road which never
reaches beauty, but wearies the feet and the heart; if the drag to
follow beauty be such that one abandons the admired way, taking rather
the despised path leading to her dreams quickly, who shall cast the
first stone? Not evil, but longing for that which is better, more
often directs the steps of the erring. Not evil, but goodness more
often allures the feeling mind unused to reason.
  Amid the tinsel and shine of her state walked Carrie, unhappy. As
when Drouet took her, she had thought: "Now am I lifted into that
which is best"; as when Hurstwood seemingly offered her the better
way: "Now am I happy." But since the world goes its way past all who
will not partake of its folly, she now found herself alone. Her
purse was open to him whose need was greatest. In her walks on
Broadway, she no longer thought of the elegance of the creatures who
passed her. Had they more of that peace and beauty which glimmered
afar off, then were they to be envied.
  Drouet abandoned his claim and was seen no more. Of Hurstwood's
death she was not even aware. A slow, black boat setting out from
the pier at Twenty-seventh Street upon its weekly errand bore, with
many others, his nameless body to the Potter's Field.
  Thus passed all that was of interest concerning these twain in their
relation to her. Their influence upon her life is explicable alone
by the nature of her longings. Time was when both represented for
her all that was most potent in earthly success. They were the
personal representatives of a state most blessed to attain- the titled
ambassadors of comfort and peace, aglow with their credentials. It
is but natural that when the world which they represented no longer
allured her, its ambassadors should be discredited. Even had Hurstwood
returned in his original beauty and glory, he could not now have
allured her. She had learned that in his world, as in her own
present state, was not happiness.
  Sitting alone, she was now an illustration of the devious ways by
which one who feels, rather than reasons, may be led in the pursuit of
beauty. Though often disillusioned, she was still waiting for that
halcyon day when she should be led forth among dreams become real.
Ames had pointed out a farther step, but on and on beyond that, if
accomplished, would lie others for her. It was forever to be the
pursuit of that radiance of delight which tints the distant hilltops
of the world.
  Oh, Carrie, Carrie! Oh, blind strivings of the human heart!
Onward, onward, it saith, and where beauty leads, there it follows.
Whether it be the tinkle of a lone sheep bell o'er some quiet
landscape, or the glimmer of beauty in sylvan places, or the show of
soul in some passing eye, the heart knows and makes answer, following.
It is when the feet weary and hope seems vain that the heartaches
and the longings arise. Know, then, that for you is neither surfeit
nor content. In your rocking-chair, by your window dreaming, shall you
long, alone. In your rocking-chair, by your window, shall you dream
such happiness as you may never feel.


                        THE END